tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57221028378470888602014-10-14T14:44:46.974-07:00monkeys.are.smarterM. Clivehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14441754093591076347noreply@blogger.comBlogger33125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5722102837847088860.post-87714119683568344662012-07-09T07:41:00.003-07:002012-07-24T20:22:49.070-07:00Matt and Alexandra's Honeymoon Registry<br /><div style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><a href="http://www.casalafe.com/thumbs/ul5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="208" src="http://www.casalafe.com/thumbs/ul5.jpg" width="208" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">After the wedding, Matt and Alexandra will be spending a week in romantic Cartagena, Colombia and the nearby beaches of the Carribean. The majority of you all will be providing us with the best wedding present which is actually making the trek out to the Ecuadorian amazon to be with us on July 28- we are thrilled that you will not only be able to share this special day (weekend) with us, but also meet Alexandra's family and experience this area that we both love so much.&nbsp; But if you'd like to do something more, we've selected a brief "honeymoon registry" of activities for our trip that people can contribute towards. Links go to a more detailed description of the restaurant, location, etc. This is South America, so it won't exactly be possible to pay directly to the hotel, restaurant, etc. Instead, we get to do it the simple way- PayPal (link at the bottom) or a check to 6545 Broad St. Bethesda, MD 20816 or Samaniego / Don Bosco y Pastaza / Macas, Ecuador. Please mention in your mail or PayPal which item you select, so we can make sure to send you a picture! &nbsp;</span></span></div><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">Thanks!</span></span><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">Matt and Alexandra&nbsp; </span></span><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">&nbsp;</span></span><b><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></b><br /><br /><b><span style="font-size: large;">Cartagena&nbsp;</span></b><br /><br />"A gorgeous city on Colombia's Caribbean coast, Cartagena is a veritable treasure trove of colonial architecture and 17th-century forts. A UNESCO World Heritage site and one of the safest spots in the country, the fabled city of Gabriel Garcia Marquez boasts many fine beaches, great restaurants and an entirely walkable historic old town." <br /><a href="http://travel.nytimes.com/2008/05/25/travel/25hours.html" target="_blank">NYTimes Travel Story</a><br /><br /><br /><img alt="old town Cartagena" height="299" src="http://media-cdn.tripadvisor.com/media/photo-s/01/e9/88/eb/old-town-cartagena.jpg" width="400" /> <br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><b><u>Cartagena activities</u></b>:</div><br /><a href="http://www.tripadvisor.com/Restaurant_Review-g297476-d2327039-Reviews-EL_BOLICHE_CEBICHERIA-Cartagena.html" target="_blank">Ceviche lunch</a> $25 <br /><br /><form action="https://www.paypal.com/cgi-bin/webscr" method="post"><input name="cmd" type="hidden" value="_s-xclick" /> <a href="http://www.ucrostravel.com/tourdelmanglar_cartagena.php" target="_blank">Canoe tour of the mangroves</a> $60 </form><br /><form action="https://www.paypal.com/cgi-bin/webscr" method="post"><input name="cmd" type="hidden" value="_s-xclick" /> <a href="http://www.sofitel.com/es/hotel-1871-sofitel-cartagena-santa-clara/restaurant.shtml" target="_blank">Lunch at 5-star hotel / restaurante Santa Clara</a>&nbsp; $50 </form><br /><a href="http://www.clubdepesca.com/el-restaurante/" target="_blank">Dinner at Restaurante Club de Pesca&nbsp;</a> $60<br /><a href="http://www.tripadvisor.com/Restaurant_Review-g297476-d1172178-Reviews-El_Santisimo-Cartagena.html" target="_blank"><br />Dinner at el Santisimo</a> $50 <br /><br /><a href="http://travel.nytimes.com/2008/05/25/travel/25hours.html" target="_blank">Romantic Ride through old town in a horse-drawn carriage</a> $25<br /><br /><a href="http://www.casadelacerveza.com.co/cartagena.html" target="_blank">Night out at Casa de la Cerveza&nbsp;</a>$25<br /><br /><a href="http://www.tripadvisor.com/Attraction_Review-g297476-d1526110-Reviews-Donde_Fidel_Salsa_Club-Cartagena.html" target="_blank">Night out at Donde Fidel Club de Salsa</a> $25 <br /><br /><a href="http://www.cartagenacaribe.com/en/schools-academies/crazy-salsa/classes-moves.htm" target="_blank">Salsa Lessons for Matt!</a> $25&nbsp; <i>(taken!)</i><br /><br /><br /><br /><b><span style="font-size: large;">Parque Nacional Tayrona</span></b><br /><br />"The gem of the Carribean coast," Tayrona is a national park where the jungle covered mountains meet the waters of the Carribean. World class beaches, snorkeling, and relaxing.&nbsp; <br /><a href="http://travel.nytimes.com/2007/11/11/travel/11Explorer.html?pagewanted=all" target="_blank">NYTimes Travel Story</a><br /><br />While at Tayrona we will be staying at the Finca Los Angeles -<br />1 (out of 2 nights) at the <a href="http://www.tripadvisor.com/Hotel_Review-g297484-d2398353-Reviews-Finca_Los_Angeles-Santa_Marta_Magdalena_Department.html" target="_blank">Finca Los Angeles</a>&nbsp;&nbsp; $80 <br /><br /><a href="http://www.tripadvisor.com/LocationPhotos-g297484-d2398353-Finca_Los_Angeles-Santa_Marta_Magdalena_Department.html"><img alt="Photos of Finca Los Angeles, Santa Marta" height="266" src="http://media-cdn.tripadvisor.com/media/photo-s/02/37/f2/bb/getlstd-property-photo.jpg" width="400" /></a><br />This photo of Finca Los Angeles is courtesy of TripAdvisor<br /><br />1 day entrance and tour of Parque Tayrona, with transportation and snorkeling rental: $70<i> (taken!)</i><br />&nbsp; <br /><img alt="File:Tayrona-Coastline.jpg" height="200" src="http://wikitravel.org/upload/shared//f/fc/Tayrona-Coastline.jpg" width="400" /> <br /><br /><br /><br /><b><span style="font-size: large;">S</span></b><b><span style="font-size: large;">anta Marta</span></b><br /><br />The historic city of Simón Bolívar, Santa Marta is located on the Carribean coast just outside of Cartagena. A Spanish colonial city (apparently the oldest in the Americas, founded in 1525), it is home to romantic charm, crystal clear waters, and miles of sandy white beaches.&nbsp; <br /><br />1 night at <a href="http://www.casadeisabella.com/santamarta_e.html" target="_blank">Casa Isabella Hotel</a> $100 <br /><br /><form action="https://www.paypal.com/cgi-bin/webscr" method="post"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><input name="cmd" type="hidden" value="_s-xclick" /><input name="encrypted" type="hidden" value="----- " /> <a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_tWimm-GRyI/T_rV1IC64II/AAAAAAAAGFg/XW22F7CcrYs/s1600/HotelIsabella.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_tWimm-GRyI/T_rV1IC64II/AAAAAAAAGFg/XW22F7CcrYs/s320/HotelIsabella.jpg" width="320" /></a></div></form><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Lunch at <a href="http://www.lulocafebar.com/menu.html%20" target="_blank">Lulo Cafe Bar</a>&nbsp; $30</div><br /><br /><a href="http://www.lulocafebar.com/images/menup2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="264" src="http://www.lulocafebar.com/images/menup2.jpg" width="403" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Dinner at<a href="http://www.tripadvisor.com/Restaurant_Review-g297484-d1991683-Reviews-Restaurante_El_Espanolete-Santa_Marta_Magdalena_Department.html" target="_blank"> El Espanolete</a> $50<br /><br /><a href="http://www.tripadvisor.com/LocationPhotos-g297484-d1991683-Restaurante_El_Espanolete-Santa_Marta_Magdalena_Department.html"><img alt="Photos of Restaurante El Espanolete, Santa Marta" height="299" src="http://media-cdn.tripadvisor.com/media/photo-s/01/db/1c/3e/restaurante-el-espanolete.jpg" width="400" /></a><br />This photo of <a href="http://www.tripadvisor.com/Restaurant_Review-g297484-d1991683-Reviews-Restaurante_El_Espanolete-Santa_Marta_Magdalena_Department.html">Restaurante El Espanolete</a> is courtesy of TripAdvisor<br /><br /><br /><form action="https://www.paypal.com/cgi-bin/webscr" method="post" target="_blank"><input name="cmd" type="hidden" value="_s-xclick" /><input name="encrypted" type="hidden" value="-----BEGIN PKCS7-----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-----END PKCS7----- " /><input alt="PayPal - The safer, easier way to pay online!" border="0" name="submit" src="https://www.paypalobjects.com/en_US/i/btn/btn_donateCC_LG.gif" type="image" /><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="https://www.paypalobjects.com/en_US/i/scr/pixel.gif" width="1" /><br /><br /><br /><br /></form>M. Clivehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14441754093591076347noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5722102837847088860.post-82445514978601505082010-04-21T15:47:00.000-07:002010-04-21T17:50:55.223-07:00Flower shows and springtime in PuyoClearly I´ve made it far in the professional world of the Ecuadorian Amazon, the other month I was asked to judge an elementary school plant contest. Here I am in Mera with José, our volunteer from the Orchid Garden.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/S8-HNOodk5I/AAAAAAAAGBU/DlzngpPMe1g/s1600/IMG_5400.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 204px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/S8-HNOodk5I/AAAAAAAAGBU/DlzngpPMe1g/s320/IMG_5400.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462733534359557010" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/S8-KFFBanMI/AAAAAAAAGBs/Duv9A9cyt4s/s1600/IMG_5426.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/S8-KFFBanMI/AAAAAAAAGBs/Duv9A9cyt4s/s320/IMG_5426.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462736692875795650" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/S8-KEzaSPAI/AAAAAAAAGBk/FHK_z-d_oBc/s1600/IMG_5415.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/S8-KEzaSPAI/AAAAAAAAGBk/FHK_z-d_oBc/s320/IMG_5415.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462736688148265986" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/S8-HNe9WM0I/AAAAAAAAGBc/papr6FmSxfU/s1600/IMG_5402.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 239px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/S8-HNe9WM0I/AAAAAAAAGBc/papr6FmSxfU/s320/IMG_5402.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462733538742121282" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">For several months we had also been working with a high school environmental club.</span> As a culmination project, we had some of the kids come to a local elementary school to teach the kids about their projects, show a video, and work with the kids for a short afternoon.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/S8-KFaUfQDI/AAAAAAAAGB0/IWGdM752LsQ/s1600/IMG_5460.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/S8-KFaUfQDI/AAAAAAAAGB0/IWGdM752LsQ/s320/IMG_5460.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462736698592935986" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />One of the sights in town thats always amazing is packing the crates of naranjilla, a fruit incredibly common to the region (and consumed throughout the country), but thankfully not known well outside of Ecuador. Its an environmental mess to cultivate, and it doesn´t even taste very good.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/S8-VZ3Aca-I/AAAAAAAAGCE/5ljtTUPQ05U/s1600/IMG_5517.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/S8-VZ3Aca-I/AAAAAAAAGCE/5ljtTUPQ05U/s320/IMG_5517.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462749144518781922" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />And an orchid (Brassia) for good measure.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/S8-VZoUzPoI/AAAAAAAAGB8/KVw5nXbvlnI/s1600/IMG_5482.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/S8-VZoUzPoI/AAAAAAAAGB8/KVw5nXbvlnI/s320/IMG_5482.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462749140577631874" border="0" /></a>M. Clivehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14441754093591076347noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5722102837847088860.post-18531412297249428342010-02-26T08:29:00.000-08:002010-02-26T08:50:06.488-08:00Peace Corps Ecuador website<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/S4f6EEKh_tI/AAAAAAAAGBA/HRga0qDtJM8/s1600-h/PC_techteam.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 212px; height: 233px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/S4f6EEKh_tI/AAAAAAAAGBA/HRga0qDtJM8/s320/PC_techteam.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5442593622444867282" border="0" /></a><br />After several months of planning, discussions and phone calls, we finally got the website put together before Christmas. You can read about PC volunteers around the country, and soon we will be out in Spanish. Its kind of a grand culmintation of our two years here, and although there is clearly a slant towards the volunteers we know personally, like the ones in our group, we hope that this website is just the beginning, and that future PC groups will be able to keep it running. Free publicity for volunteer´s and counterpart organization´s work! So link to it on your blog please, so that it will show up in the Google results.<br />Feb. 2010<br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/S4f61aJuoFI/AAAAAAAAGBI/876NSbORh10/s1600-h/mattnmarcie.jpg"><img style="margin: 10pt 10pt 10px 10px; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/S4f61aJuoFI/AAAAAAAAGBI/876NSbORh10/s320/mattnmarcie.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5442594470160670802" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Ok, Marcie didn´t help with the website but she´s just so wonderful and I couldn´t be here without her.M. Clivehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14441754093591076347noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5722102837847088860.post-36226337742866859352009-10-14T06:47:00.000-07:002009-10-14T07:14:27.920-07:00The Galapagos<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/StXaIw0wOgI/AAAAAAAAFtw/Hf1z68_anm8/s1600-h/IMG_5073.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 180px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/StXaIw0wOgI/AAAAAAAAFtw/Hf1z68_anm8/s320/IMG_5073.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392455972926011906" border="0" /></a>Boobies and more boobies, I don’t know what more there is to say, the Galapagos are an incredible place for anyone, especially a pseudo-scientist. It was kind of like being in an open zoo, or wild animal park: the animals are numerous and docile, not being afraid of humans because of their evolution in the absence of predators.<p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">I went with a couple of great Peace Corps friends, it was great to have a week in Ecuador but free from normal life. We spent the week staying at a hostal, taking day trips to the volcano, around the island, and out on the water to snorkel. I left them once for a day to go on a dive, but the snorkeling was easily just as good. It was amazing to see the marine life, it was kind of a mix of California and tropical (as I guess it should be); there were wrasses and sheephead from California and surgeonfish, butterfly fish, and angelfish from the tropics. I didn’t get to see hammerhead sharks, but there were tons of turtles, rays, and sea lions; we also saw dozens of white tipped reef sharks in tide pools.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/StXaijyRDGI/AAAAAAAAFt4/_wl0a92Yrg0/s1600-h/IMG_3453.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/StXaijyRDGI/AAAAAAAAFt4/_wl0a92Yrg0/s320/IMG_3453.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392456416102517858" border="0" /></a> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">The islands struck me as real meaning of tranquilo; on the mainland I often find that people are fairly easygoing but are still often impatient, whereas here people really walked the walk. We were on Isla Isabella, admittedly one of the less touristed and more local islands, but people drove slowly down the few roads in the town, something I rarely see elsewhere in the country.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Most of the commentary I read and hear about the Galapagos surround the environmental impact of tourism, but I found relations between the community and the marine and land reserve to be more relevant (although this is likely due to the fact that I was there in the off season and not on the main island or a tour boat). The land reserve, as in the National Park, was the first National Park in Ecuador, <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/StXbOb1UbLI/AAAAAAAAFuA/lNwTbnynf1g/s1600-h/monkey.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 184px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/StXbOb1UbLI/AAAAAAAAFuA/lNwTbnynf1g/s320/monkey.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392457169882082482" border="0" /></a>and is of course the source of the Darwin legend. However, being an island ecosystem makes it extremely susceptible to invasive species, and the island is ravaged by goats, cows, and pigs, in addition to several exotic plants, among others guava. I believe that goat control has been conducted on a fairly large scale, but it seems to have caused community problems (they like hunting), and more animals remain of which the park is not removing. The guava, on the other hand, is extremely invasive, and not only does it seem out of the reach of the park’s management, but they don’t seem too involved in education. Every month to the islands arrive dozens of foreign volunteers set on saving the environment by feeding lettuce to captive tortoises; I can think of a few manual labor tasks that would serve them better. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">The marine reserve is a different kind of story, it is only a recent addition, only 10-15 years. Locals are allowed artisanal catch, and big boats from outside are banned, but this seems to be frequently subverted and / or bribed. Theoretically, a marine reserve should improve the fish stocks, thus benefitting the few fishermen that are permitted. It’s a sad refrain for me that everywhere I go around the world, land or sea, people say that there aren’t big animals like there used to be. </p>M. Clivehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14441754093591076347noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5722102837847088860.post-24777846227918989742009-08-07T09:39:00.000-07:002009-08-10T10:04:42.442-07:00Amazon School Books Hit the Road!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/Snxn-cBYhdI/AAAAAAAAFsc/mf4lyoSs41s/s1600-h/abe+224.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/Snxn-cBYhdI/AAAAAAAAFsc/mf4lyoSs41s/s320/abe+224.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5367279178290333138" border="1" /></a><br />A couple weeks ago I got the books out on the road (and trail) into the jungle. A friend of mine was going out to an indigenous Shuar community so it seemed like a good time to hop along and visit some schools out in the interior communities.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/Snxn-lzDhQI/AAAAAAAAFsk/VNLhvQ5Ujdw/s1600-h/abe+193.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/Snxn-lzDhQI/AAAAAAAAFsk/VNLhvQ5Ujdw/s320/abe+193.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5367279180914590978" border="1" /></a><br />These communities, or ¨al dentro¨ they are sometimes called, are the ones that can´t be reached by road, meaning you have to get there by airplane, motor canoe, or foot. We rode in bus and pickup for a couple hours,<br />then walked about four hours into two small commnuities of about 100 inhabitants each.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/Snxn_YB5CCI/AAAAAAAAFs0/XK8yY83MQyI/s1600-h/abe+200.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/Snxn_YB5CCI/AAAAAAAAFs0/XK8yY83MQyI/s320/abe+200.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5367279194398591010" border="1" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />The communities definately look different. Most houses and buildings are made out of the traditional materials, there`s much less trash, and people (especially kids) are dressed much simpler. The school rooms looked about the same as ones along the highways. High school kids go off to town to live with an aunt and uncle and attend high school, although some girls get pregnant at a young age and never make it out. The little kids are precious though! They are fascinated with the hair on my arms and some even called me "colono", the word for a mestizo (non-indigenous) Ecuadorian!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/Snxn-5aiOuI/AAAAAAAAFss/LXDJA8yVybw/s1600-h/abe+186.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/Snxn-5aiOuI/AAAAAAAAFss/LXDJA8yVybw/s320/abe+186.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5367279186180455138" border="1" /></a><br /><br /><br />Food was also noticably different, being in much scarcer quantity. Chicha, a fermented yucca drink, makes up most of the diet here. Its really sad to see the malnutrition in the kids resulting from parasites and vitamin deficiency. The land produces fruits and vegetables but the people have lost the custom and impetus to grow them.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/SoA_TluandI/AAAAAAAAFtE/qvBHduWyIsQ/s1600-h/abe+138.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/SoA_TluandI/AAAAAAAAFtE/qvBHduWyIsQ/s320/abe+138.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368360361602489810" border="0" /></a>The saddest thing of all thought was seeing the road that is being blazed in towards some of these interior communities, a fact that is repeated throught the Ecuadorian Amazon. It is true that roads can bring the promise of economic development to rural communities, but its is a proven fact that road construction is the primary agent of tropical deforestation. Roads open new land to logging and subsequent development, usually cattle grazing but sometimes mineral exploration. Do not be mistaken, indigenous communities take great pride in their rainforest riches, as they have been for the hundreds of years they have been inhabiting them. However, many fail to see the connection between roads and deforestation. One enlightened local leader of an Ecuadorian NGO told me once, you open a road to the communities but what have they got to offer, what do they have to sell? Timber, nothing else.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/SoBIdtmTyoI/AAAAAAAAFtM/btIAM7ZhOws/s1600-h/abe+144.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/SoBIdtmTyoI/AAAAAAAAFtM/btIAM7ZhOws/s320/abe+144.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368370431119313538" border="0" /></a><br />Two local groups I have met in Ecuador do work that stands above their peers. One is Amazon Partnerships Foundation, a group that works with local communities to implement small scale development projects to improve quality of life and protect their local environment.<br /><a href="http://www.amazonpartnerships.org/">www.amazonpartnerships.org</a><br /><br />Another is EcoMinga, an organization that manages ecological reserves located in valuable and threatened ecological habitats.<br /><a href="http://www.ecominga.net/">www.ecominga.net</a>M. Clivehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14441754093591076347noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5722102837847088860.post-27242314659867453742009-05-28T17:10:00.000-07:002009-05-28T17:21:27.673-07:00Estamos Cumpliendo!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/Sh8o90DnZ4I/AAAAAAAAEpo/7BzdhyhWV1c/s1600-h/1.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 310px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/Sh8o90DnZ4I/AAAAAAAAEpo/7BzdhyhWV1c/s320/1.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5341032725495637890" border="0" /></a>
<br /><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CPC02%7E1%5CCONFIG%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="metricconverter"></o:smarttagtype><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:hyphenationzone>21</w:HyphenationZone> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><object classid="clsid:38481807-CA0E-42D2-BF39-B33AF135CC4D" id="ieooui"></object> <style> st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } </style> <![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0cm; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:612.0pt 792.0pt; margin:70.85pt 3.0cm 70.85pt 3.0cm; mso-header-margin:36.0pt; mso-footer-margin:36.0pt; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Tabla normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0cm; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} <br />{parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/Sh8mQtBplUI/AAAAAAAAEpI/2Oy5OjGxu0U/s1600-h/1.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 310px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/Sh8mQtBplUI/AAAAAAAAEpI/2Oy5OjGxu0U/s320/1.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5341029751490975042" border="0" /></a></style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB">Thanks for all your donations and encouragement! I`ve finally been able to start going out to the schools and working with the environmental ed books that took so long to print. These pictures are from a few days ago when I went to a few communities outside of Puyo. The kids are 7-8 years old, could read and write a little, and were very polite. They were in a small town if a few hundred, and taking into account the surrounding farms, the elementar</span><span style="" lang="EN-GB">y school held about 75 kids, allowing the classes to be reasonable grouped by age. In the smaller communities, an entire elementary school will be clumped together in a class no larger than 20. Many of these communities are separated by only a 10-<st1:metricconverter productid="20 km" st="on">20 km</st1:metricconverter>, but the remote jungle makes travel difficult. Sometimes the teachers arrive at dawn and leave the same day on the only car</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/Sh8pNVwFuZI/AAAAAAAAEpw/mU1EY7zy1Zg/s1600-h/2.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/Sh8pNVwFuZI/AAAAAAAAEpw/mU1EY7zy1Zg/s320/2.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5341032992238582162" border="0" /></a><span style="" lang="EN-GB">s that come to the village, other times they stay for the week and go home on the weekends. All in all, the teac</span><span style="" lang="EN-GB">hers </span><span style="" lang="EN-GB">are o</span><span style="" lang="EN-GB">ften coming from outside of the communities, making community relations occasionally strained. I´m starting to think that more than anything, the books will be most useful as a literacy tool.<span style=""> </span>Of course the schools have a few basic textbooks to read, but I`m hoping that this is going to give them new materials to practice on, and the books for the younger kids are especially designed to be brief on text, while mixing with drawing and fun activities. I can`t say that its not sad to see a nine year old struggling to write the name of their community. The best that this book can do is give them a chance to learn basics of reading and w</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/Sh8mQx02KGI/AAAAAAAAEpY/I1IE6L0j27s/s1600-h/3.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/Sh8mQx02KGI/AAAAAAAAEpY/I1IE6L0j27s/s320/3.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5341029752779450466" border="0" /></a><span style="" lang="EN-GB">riting, while doing it in a context of the natural world that surrou</span><span style="" lang="EN-GB">nds them. The last picture here is of the teacher walking a</span><span style="" lang="EN-GB">cross the stream to get from the road to </span><span style="" lang="EN-GB">the school. This school was na</span><span style="" lang="EN-GB">med <i style="">sacha runa</i>, which in local Kichwa means jungle man or jungle person. The town was named <i style="">lan yacu</i>, <i style="">yacu</i> means river, and <i style="">lan</i> is a tree known as sangre de drago, whose sap is used as medical treatment for healing scars, among other ailments. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB">And if you are looking for a vacation this summer, I can always use help carrying the boxes for the longer jungle hikes that are comin</span><span style="" lang="EN-GB">g up!</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/Sh8mRFDkiAI/AAAAAAAAEpg/H3F_IncCQ9M/s1600-h/4.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/Sh8mRFDkiAI/AAAAAAAAEpg/H3F_IncCQ9M/s320/4.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5341029757941483522" border="0" /></a></p>
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<br />M. Clivehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14441754093591076347noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5722102837847088860.post-23968602831127116752009-04-23T10:04:00.000-07:002009-04-23T13:05:10.209-07:00Election time in Ecuador<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/SfCkJz-5xmI/AAAAAAAAEk4/WdIZkzPxKcQ/s1600-h/dale.JPG"><img style="margin: 1pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 194px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/SfCkJz-5xmI/AAAAAAAAEk4/WdIZkzPxKcQ/s320/dale.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327938847659116130" border="0" /></a> Its election time in Ecuador and if you thought politics in America were too much, just come down here. Since March its been every day in your face, rallies, parades, and talking cars. Out in front we have President Rafeal Correa, big fan of fist pumping, who greeted the crowd in Kichwa the day that he came to Puyo (Correa spent some time volunteering in a Sierran Kichwa town when he was young, and gathers a lot of support from them, by far the most numerous indigenous group in Ecuador). Below is a poster of him that reads, "You decide between the dark past or this marvelous future that is the Democratic Revolution!" On the street post we have Lucio Gutierrez, of Party 3, asking "Vota 3 otra vez", as he was the president before Correa, only to be impeached! Some of his other ads say, we were better off before with Lucio, and things were cheaper with Lucio. I find it interesting that all the parties feature their number much more prominantly than the name. The name is usually some combination of the words independent, alliance, country, socialist, progressive, etc. However, the number is (I`m quite sure) designed for illiterate voters. In fact, in TV ads, they clearly instruct a voter marking a ballot marked with the party number.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/SfCkJ1q3sQI/AAAAAAAAElA/ZlbCzrCio38/s1600-h/rafeal.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 280px; height: 200px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/SfCkJ1q3sQI/AAAAAAAAElA/ZlbCzrCio38/s320/rafeal.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327938848111964418" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/SfCkKEUWgII/AAAAAAAAElI/BtdcfENeuv4/s1600-h/lucio.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/SfCkKEUWgII/AAAAAAAAElI/BtdcfENeuv4/s320/lucio.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327938852044046466" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">¡MOVIE STARS EXPOSED IN PUYO!</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/SfCq0_vb1_I/AAAAAAAAEmA/G7RBWLHrO9Y/s1600-h/rambo.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 220px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/SfCq0_vb1_I/AAAAAAAAEmA/G7RBWLHrO9Y/s320/rambo.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327946186619607026" border="0" /></a>I have to say that one of my favorites here is the guy in the middle of this photo, in the black shirt, kind of looking at the camera. His name is German Flores, his slogan is 100% German Flores, leading many foreign visitors to Puyo to ask me, why do I see so many ads for flowers from Germany. The only reason that I really like him is his striking resemblance to Rambo. I was running alongside this parade like a giddy schoolgirl trying to snap a photo of him.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/SfCqL_YgB7I/AAAAAAAAEl4/PVDr3kHSP68/s1600-h/jaime.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 267px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/SfCqL_YgB7I/AAAAAAAAEl4/PVDr3kHSP68/s320/jaime.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327945482148775858" border="0" /></a><br />How do you say "thug" in Español?<br /><br />This candidate for prefecto (governor) makes no attempt to hide that all he wants to do is pave roads. This ad reads, more asphalts for the province. Some of his other ads read "Mas vialidad". Unfortunately, vias means roads, not viability. Once I actually met him in a fancy restaurant in Puyo. It was a rainy afternoon and we were the only two groups eating lunch at 3 pm. An Ecuadorian friend I was with wanted to tell him about our orchid garden, to which he responded, yeah, its raining alot these months so Pastaza is no good for tourists, but we`re busying paving roads to improve the access. A couple weeks later the bridge near my house collapsed.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/SfCqLvQFZpI/AAAAAAAAElw/L7b6qSY4Wv0/s1600-h/thug.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 270px; height: 232px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/SfCqLvQFZpI/AAAAAAAAElw/L7b6qSY4Wv0/s320/thug.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327945477818508946" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Or maybe "goon" would be a better word for this guy?<br /><br />These guys just don`t know how to look good for the camera, or anything else for that matter. Maybe they`re trying to portray the image of security.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/SfCq1FB4OFI/AAAAAAAAEmI/f9ZnEByfkNY/s1600-h/flag.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 280px; height: 205px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/SfCq1FB4OFI/AAAAAAAAEmI/f9ZnEByfkNY/s320/flag.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327946188039141458" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />No, its not the gay pride parade of Puyo, the rainbow flag is the symbol of the nationwide indigenous party, Pachatutik. This party is acutally supporting the guy in the drawing above.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/SfCo0sZlcjI/AAAAAAAAElY/cbjS2_YVBFk/s1600-h/od.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 280px; height: 200px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/SfCo0sZlcjI/AAAAAAAAElY/cbjS2_YVBFk/s320/od.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327943982404432434" border="0" /></a><br />In Ecuador anyone can be a candidate, and when you don`t know anything about the candidate, you can look at their title to get a little idea about them. A few are Dr. (usually a lawyer), most are Ing. or Lc. (college degree), but a few are more interesting. The young girl in the photo here is an Od, which means Odontologist, or Dentist.<br /><br />Next we have the Pastor, (on the left)<br /><br />and finally, my favorite, the cute girl in the poster on the bottom is the waitress at the restuarant where I usually eat lunch! She`s running for the National Assembly, the equivalent of Congress! I hope she loses because she`s the only person who remembers to bring me the hot s<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/SfCnqWeZ8YI/AAAAAAAAElQ/shbNmcnUrsM/s1600-h/pastor.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 280px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/SfCnqWeZ8YI/AAAAAAAAElQ/shbNmcnUrsM/s320/pastor.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327942705208750466" border="0" /></a>auce.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/SfCx2He8o1I/AAAAAAAAEmQ/VQkDHfw4KQE/s1600-h/waitress.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 280px; height: 220px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/SfCx2He8o1I/AAAAAAAAEmQ/VQkDHfw4KQE/s320/waitress.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327953902459200338" border="0" /></a>M. Clivehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14441754093591076347noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5722102837847088860.post-34879441022628306462009-02-03T13:22:00.000-08:002009-04-23T11:36:04.303-07:00Amazon Elementary Schools<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-size:180%;"><br />THANKS! I`ve got all the money in and now I`m in the process of printing the books! I`ll have photos of smiling faces soon!</span><br /><br />New project: I`m working on printing some school materials for rural elementary schools in the Ecuadorian Amazon. Its actually a continuation of some environmental education materials that were written by the previous volunteer here. Walk into some of the rural schools here and you will find a dearth of materials, books; even the essentials like paper and pencils that we take for granted are missing from these classrooms. We´ve come up with a 25 page textbook about the plants, animals, ethnic groups, and conservation issues in the region. I`ll be distributing a paper version (as well as digital CD) during the next semester of the school year, from March until June, I just need a few thousand dollars to be able to print these materials. You can see a few sample pages I`ve attached. Its in Spanish (obviously!) but you should be able to figure it out. To donate go to the link below, at peacecorps.gov in the donors section. </span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/SYjIWKNx1aI/AAAAAAAAEgw/IXIDxC4c-NI/s1600-h/cover.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 226px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/SYjIWKNx1aI/AAAAAAAAEgw/IXIDxC4c-NI/s320/cover.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298705244626212258" border="0" /></a><br /><span lang="EN-GB">Please feel free to share this with any one you know, teachers- biology, </span><span lang="EN-GB">Spanish,</span><span lang="EN-GB"> etc, grandparents without email.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.scribd.com/doc/11618686/Amazon-Elementary-Schools-text"><target="_blank">See the book!</target="_blank"></a></span><br /><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span><a href="https://www.peacecorps.gov/index.cfm?shell=resources.donors.contribute.projDetail&amp;projdesc=518-328" target="_blank">https://www.peacecorps.gov/<wbr>index.cfm?shell=resources.<wbr>donors.contribute.projDetail&amp;<wbr>projdesc=518-328</a>M. Clivehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14441754093591076347noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5722102837847088860.post-38544791180800831812008-11-13T05:39:00.000-08:002009-04-23T11:37:38.912-07:00Omaere Ethnobotanical ParkThis is a new website that I made for an ethnobotanical garden in Puyo.<br /><span style="font-size:180%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;"></span><a href="http://www.fundacionomaere.org/"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5277419912676526690" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 320px; height: 90px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/ST0pcxmoSmI/AAAAAAAAEeU/JHksdAM6lZk/s320/omaere+heading.gif" border="0" /></a><br /><div><span style="font-size:180%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:180%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:180%;">The Presidents come to Puy</span><span style="font-size:180%;">o!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:180%;"></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/SRwwiybT8BI/AAAAAAAADfw/2u20CRY-jzI/s1600-h/oct.+2008+029.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5268139038326648850" style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; width: 320px; cursor: pointer; height: 245px;" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/SRwwiybT8BI/AAAAAAAADfw/2u20CRY-jzI/s320/oct.+2008+029.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/SRwxCwG48BI/AAAAAAAADf4/s6mY7mFv5DM/s1600-h/oct.+2008+026.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5268139587459936274" style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; width: 320px; cursor: pointer; height: 233px;" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/SRwxCwG48BI/AAAAAAAADf4/s6mY7mFv5DM/s320/oct.+2008+026.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Our president Economista Rafeal Correa came to visit our humble abode of Puyo last week, along with his "compa<span style=";font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:100%;" ><span lang="ES-EC">ñ</span></span>ero" Hugo Chavez.<br />Peace Corps prides itself on remaining apolitical, as much as could be possilbe for an arm of the US government. So, for the sake of international diplomacy, I will refrain from all comments about our socialist friends in the south and simply say this: Hugo Chavez is fat. Really fat.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/SRwzrJbufmI/AAAAAAAADgA/lqlQbVBftpQ/s1600-h/oct.+2008+018.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5268142480476241506" style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; width: 320px; cursor: pointer; height: 240px;" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/SRwzrJbufmI/AAAAAAAADgA/lqlQbVBftpQ/s320/oct.+2008+018.jpg" border="0" /></a>They came to speak at a big coliseum, there were perhaps 3,000 people, and almost every one of them tried to rush up to the front to shake hands when Correa and Chavez walked in. Correa was wearing his typical indigenous, semi-casual white floral pullover, while Chavez was decked out in his favorite colors of olive green and more olive green. The crowd loved them both, but loved Correa more. It had the energy of a campaign rally, which is to say, a lot of energy, considering that this was a fairly normal state visit in a medium sized city. They just get really excited here. The sound quality was poor, but I definately heard Correa shout "la patria ya es de to<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/SRw0MA_7cvI/AAAAAAAADgI/pLdEQIyyvYM/s1600-h/oct.+2008+031.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5268143045147849458" style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; width: 320px; cursor: pointer; height: 203px;" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/SRw0MA_7cvI/AAAAAAAADgI/pLdEQIyyvYM/s320/oct.+2008+031.jpg" border="0" /></a>dos" a few times, and several times I heard Chavez thrash out the word "imperialistas."</div>M. Clivehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14441754093591076347noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5722102837847088860.post-55143510838642279862008-11-11T08:54:00.000-08:002009-04-23T11:38:27.698-07:00¡WILD ANIMALS!<div align="center"><span style="font-size:180%;"><br /></span></div><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/SSg9CVqym4I/AAAAAAAADgY/5pyw29fFgJY/s1600-h/goat.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5271530474222820226" style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; float: left; width: 260px; height: 266px;" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/SSg9CVqym4I/AAAAAAAADgY/5pyw29fFgJY/s320/goat.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/SSg7HTZiG9I/AAAAAAAADgQ/MAMrrXveWmY/s1600-h/goat.jpg"></a>Why do I love Ecuador today? Because I went jogging outside of the town where I live, through the sugar cane fields at the foot of the mountains, and I got chased by a goat! </div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:78%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:78%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:78%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:78%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:78%;"></span></div><div><span style="font-size:78%;"></span></div><div></div><div><span style="font-size:78%;"></span></div><div></div><div><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /><br />Disclaimer: Not the actual goat. Any resemblance to aforementioned goat is purely coincidental.</span> </div>M. Clivehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14441754093591076347noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5722102837847088860.post-50636683459628696832008-09-23T16:02:00.000-07:002009-04-23T11:38:59.541-07:00The Orchid Garden<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/SNl3oybkPyI/AAAAAAAADYY/tUnky6GC_5o/s1600-h/July+2008+083.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/SNl3oybkPyI/AAAAAAAADYY/tUnky6GC_5o/s320/July+2008+083.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5249358383292890914" border="0" /></a><br />I've been working at this orchid garden outside of my town. Its a fascinating place, I wanted some excuse to be able to hang out there and learn about plants, and when I started talking to the owner, he told me that he wanted a website. I had been wanting to learn for a little while, so I gave this a try (I had some help from friends)<br /><br /><a href="http://jardinbotanicolasorquideas.com/">www.jardinbotanicolasorquideas.com</a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >New Photos on Picasa!</span><br /><table style="width: 194px;"><tbody><tr><td style="background: transparent url(http://picasaweb.google.com/f/img/transparent_album_background.gif) no-repeat scroll left center; height: 194px; -moz-background-clip: -moz-initial; -moz-background-origin: -moz-initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: -moz-initial;" align="center"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/mattbare03/DamsAndApartments#"><img src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/mattbare03/SPZCIemfW1E/AAAAAAAADdk/CvMkR3GALYI/s160-c/DamsAndApartments.jpg" style="margin: 1px 0pt 0pt 4px;" width="160" height="160" /></a></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center; font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11px;"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/mattbare03/DamsAndApartments#" style="color: rgb(77, 77, 77); font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none;">dams and apartments</a></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/SOI9HYcBLRI/AAAAAAAADY8/Answ79PWCpc/s1600-h/long+hair.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/SOI9HYcBLRI/AAAAAAAADY8/Answ79PWCpc/s320/long+hair.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5251827312495766802" border="0" /></a><br />It was about time for a haircut- with the dudes in Quito in late September for a reconnect meeting. Everyone had stories to tell and local counterparts to show off. PC sent us staight home from school on Friday so that we wouldn't get caught up in the chaos of election weekend. So far I've hardly heard a car honk their horn.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://www.blogger.com/jardinbotanicolasorquideas.com"></a><a></a>M. Clivehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14441754093591076347noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5722102837847088860.post-40822724276532274302008-06-23T11:35:00.000-07:002009-02-13T15:18:25.649-08:00Puyo, EcuadorWelcome to Puyo, Ecuador, the second rainiest city in the world. Its beautiful when it stops raining. I'm settling my way into life here, sampling strange drinks and exploring my new home for the next two years. When I go to a new office people here often great a newcomer by saying, "we're here with open doors, open arms, etc.," and if you look at these photos you'll see that my apartment really does have open doors. So much that in fact one day the mother next door returned my camera with several new photos that the kids had taken of themselves when they walked off with it for a day without me noticing.<br /><br /><table style="width: 194px;"><tbody><tr><td style="background: transparent url(http://picasaweb.google.com/f/img/transparent_album_background.gif) no-repeat scroll left center; height: 194px; -moz-background-clip: -moz-initial; -moz-background-origin: -moz-initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: -moz-initial;" align="center"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/mattbare03/June2008"><img src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/mattbare03/SF_hwWAS0LE/AAAAAAAADEE/6NP1wwPBN20/s160-c/June2008.jpg" style="margin: 1px 0pt 0pt 4px;" width="160" height="160" /></a></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center; font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11px;"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/mattbare03/June2008" style="color: rgb(77, 77, 77); font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none;">June 2008</a></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/SNl3oybkPyI/AAAAAAAADYY/tUnky6GC_5o/s1600-h/July+2008+083.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/SNl3oybkPyI/AAAAAAAADYY/tUnky6GC_5o/s320/July+2008+083.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5249358383292890914" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:180%;" >The Orchid Garden </span><br /><br />I've been working at this orchid garden outside of my town. Its a fascinating place, I wanted some excuse to be able to hang out there and learn about plants, and when I started talking to the owner, he told me that he wanted a website. I had been wanting to learn for a little while, so I gave this a try (I had some help from friends)<br /><br /><a href="http://jardinbotanicolasorquideas.com/">www.jardinbotanicolasorquideas.com</a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >More Photos on Picasa</span><br /><table style="width: 194px;"><tbody><tr><td style="background: transparent url(http://picasaweb.google.com/f/img/transparent_album_background.gif) no-repeat scroll left center; height: 194px; -moz-background-clip: -moz-initial; -moz-background-origin: -moz-initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: -moz-initial;" align="center"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/mattbare03/DamsAndApartments#"><img src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/mattbare03/SPZCIemfW1E/AAAAAAAADdk/CvMkR3GALYI/s160-c/DamsAndApartments.jpg" style="margin: 1px 0pt 0pt 4px;" width="160" height="160" /></a></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center; font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11px;"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/mattbare03/DamsAndApartments#" style="color: rgb(77, 77, 77); font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none;">dams and apartments</a></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/SOI9HYcBLRI/AAAAAAAADY8/Answ79PWCpc/s1600-h/long+hair.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/SOI9HYcBLRI/AAAAAAAADY8/Answ79PWCpc/s320/long+hair.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5251827312495766802" border="0" /></a><br />It was about time for a haircut- with the dudes in Quito in late September for a reconnect meeting. Everyone had stories to tell and local counterparts to show off. PC sent us staight home from school on Friday so that we wouldn't get caught up in the chaos of election weekend. So far I've hardly heard a car honk their horn.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://www.blogger.com/jardinbotanicolasorquideas.com"></a><a></a>M. Clivehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14441754093591076347noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5722102837847088860.post-1748147492153734162008-04-21T06:52:00.000-07:002008-05-16T11:23:28.427-07:00<table style="width: 194px;"><tbody><tr><td style="background: transparent url(http://picasaweb.google.com/f/img/transparent_album_background.gif) no-repeat scroll left center; height: 194px; -moz-background-clip: -moz-initial; -moz-background-origin: -moz-initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: -moz-initial;" align="center"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/mattbare03/EcuadorCayambeAndQuito"><img src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/mattbare03/SB88R1bZ2uE/AAAAAAAAC7Y/JCAHFLOPbbQ/s160-c/EcuadorCayambeAndQuito.jpg" style="margin: 1px 0pt 0pt 4px;" height="160" width="160" /></a></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center; font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11px;"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/mattbare03/EcuadorCayambeAndQuito" style="color: rgb(77, 77, 77); font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none;">Ecuador: Cayambe and quito</a></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">Training for Peace Corps Ecuador</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/SAydXNvbHwI/AAAAAAAACxo/fJ8HfQgOTu4/s1600-h/123.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/SAydXNvbHwI/AAAAAAAACxo/fJ8HfQgOTu4/s320/123.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5191697492602461954" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">Working hard in the at<br />the beach in Canoa Ecuador.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/SAydz9vbHxI/AAAAAAAACxw/YOS8dQaRXd4/s1600-h/1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/SAydz9vbHxI/AAAAAAAACxw/YOS8dQaRXd4/s320/1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5191697986523701010" border="0" /></a><br /><br /> <br /><br /><span style="font-size:180%;"><br /> It was hot at night</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/SAye1dvbHzI/AAAAAAAACyA/iWUXr7p_YrU/s1600-h/2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/SAye1dvbHzI/AAAAAAAACyA/iWUXr7p_YrU/s320/2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5191699111805132594" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">Waterfalls in the Sierra </span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><img src="file:///C:/DOCUME%7E1/Usuario/CONFIG%7E1/Temp/moz-screenshot.jpg" alt="" />M. Clivehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14441754093591076347noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5722102837847088860.post-41047968299332821792008-04-16T11:07:00.000-07:002008-05-16T11:13:01.914-07:00China photo essayM. Clivehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14441754093591076347noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5722102837847088860.post-78710627442446669212008-02-16T07:55:00.000-08:002008-02-16T07:58:32.002-08:00China slideshow<table style="width:194px;"><tr><td align="center" style="height:194px;background:url(http://picasaweb.google.com/f/img/transparent_album_background.gif) no-repeat left"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/mattbare03/BestOfChina"><img src="http://lh6.google.com/mattbare03/R4vCEenWxPE/AAAAAAAAAZg/b5qeh3SgJME/s160-c/BestOfChina.jpg" width="160" height="160" style="margin:1px 0 0 4px;"></a></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align:center;font-family:arial,sans-serif;font-size:11px"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/mattbare03/BestOfChina" style="color:#4D4D4D;font-weight:bold;text-decoration:none;">best of China</a></td></tr></table>M. Clivehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14441754093591076347noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5722102837847088860.post-54565944933982256442008-02-08T16:10:00.000-08:002008-02-10T15:24:13.342-08:00Monkeys of the World<table style="WIDTH: 194px"><tbody><tr><td style="BACKGROUND: url(http://picasaweb.google.com/f/img/transparent_album_background.gif) no-repeat left 50%; HEIGHT: 194px" align="middle"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/mattbare03/MonkeysOfTheWorld"><img style="MARGIN: 1px 0px 0px 4px" height="160" src="http://lh6.google.com/mattbare03/R6X8YO71clE/AAAAAAAACYY/pcoU8Oi_pKM/s160-c/MonkeysOfTheWorld.jpg" width="160" /></a></td></tr><tr><td style="FONT-SIZE: 11px; FONT-FAMILY: arial,sans-serif; TEXT-ALIGN: center"><a style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold; COLOR: #4d4d4d; TEXT-DECORATION: none" href="http://picasaweb.google.com/mattbare03/MonkeysOfTheWorld">Monkeys of the world</a></td></tr></tbody></table>M. Clivehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14441754093591076347noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5722102837847088860.post-8421430381093624952008-02-05T20:26:00.000-08:002008-02-05T20:34:10.670-08:00Korea journal<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/R6k4q-71fXI/AAAAAAAACww/Q6E_thMOfuU/s1600-h/best+of+Korea+and+aus.+-+24.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/R6k4q-71fXI/AAAAAAAACww/Q6E_thMOfuU/s320/best+of+Korea+and+aus.+-+24.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5163720758856613234" border="0" /></a>Nov. 25. So many airports! From <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Melbourne</st1:place></st1:city>, a flight to <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Sydney</st1:place></st1:city>, 36 hours, two runs around the botanical gardens, two self cooked dinners of pesto spaghetti, and one awesome McD’s apple turnover later, it’s onto <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Japan</st1:place></st1:country-region>.<span style=""> </span>Halfway there, in <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Cairns</st1:place></st1:city>, the footprint of <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Japan</st1:place></st1:country-region> begins; an entire airport of well dressed tourists incapable of speaking any language but Japanese; the only people speaking English are the helpless store clerks. My flight was to <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Nagoya</st1:place></st1:city>, on account of the price, but it was delayed, so I rush through <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Nagoya</st1:place></st1:city> station onto the shinkansen, then onto food old Kintetsu, asking strangers along the way to borrow their cell so I can call Masayo to pick me up at Saidaiji at <st1:time minute="0" hour="0" st="on">midnight</st1:time>.<span style=""> </span>All I had to do was step foot into the <st1:place st="on"><st1:placetype st="on">ocean</st1:placetype> of <st1:placename st="on">Japanese</st1:placename></st1:place> and the language came pouring back out of my mouth, faulty at best but nevertheless flowing with <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Osaka</st1:place></st1:city> ben in full effect. We go to Tomo’s apartment, she gets excited, we drink some wine, I’m happy.<span style=""> </span>After a quick stop at 100 yen for supplies and Nara Fam for breakfast, it’s off to another airport, KIX, for <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Korea</st1:place></st1:country-region>. I sit next to a nervous Korean woman, she seconds my order of <i style="">aka wain</i> (red-o win-u? she says) and tells me about her job as a stem cell researcher in <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Kobe</st1:place></st1:city>, her brother goes to / works at <st1:state st="on"><st1:place st="on">Penn.</st1:place></st1:state><span style=""> </span>Talk about brain drain.<span style=""> </span>I’m overwhelmed with a feeling of effortlessness as I arrive in <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Seoul</st1:place></st1:city>, hop on an airport bus, wander through some streets and alleys in the dark to a hostel to meet my friend Rieko. <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p> </o:p><br />I’m here without a guidebook or even a map, and can’t speak a word.<span style=""> </span>I’ve got nothing more than a set of directions and one phone number, and it doesn’t bother me an inch.<span style=""> </span>Halfway between <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Japan</st1:place></st1:country-region> and <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">China</st1:place></st1:country-region>, geographically and culturally; clean but not anal, friendly but not loud, <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Korea</st1:place></st1:country-region> seems perfect after three days.<span style=""> </span>Food is flavorful and plentiful, the wine is strong, the trains are fast and no one spits. Onsens, mountains, temples, even a little Great Wall of Korea! I’ve yet to see <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Seoul</st1:place></st1:city> in the light of day, but <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Pusan</st1:place></st1:city> is a striking city on the south coast, skyscrapers packed in the narrow valleys of modest mountains, think and green although the views are clouded by the thin veil of pollution, most likely blown across the sea from <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">China</st1:place></st1:country-region>. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">The fish market smalls of fresh catch, fried in vats of oil at countless restaurants; ancient women push carts of produce and herbs through crowded alleys.<span style=""> </span>I hop on a posh bus that sends smartly dressed passengers to <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Seoul</st1:place></st1:city> every 20 minutes.<span style=""> </span>The ride passes cities of apartment blocks, neat shipping yeards, and trim wheat fields, <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/R6k38-71fWI/AAAAAAAACwo/468GMCA10uc/s1600-h/best+of+Korea+and+aus.+-+40.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/R6k38-71fWI/AAAAAAAACwo/468GMCA10uc/s320/best+of+Korea+and+aus.+-+40.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5163719968582630754" border="0" /></a>all shimmering in the early evening dusk unique to winter. I return to a booming <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Seoul</st1:place></st1:city>; sparkling lights illuminate designer shops and luxury Dunkin Donuts.<span style=""> </span>Throngs of fashionable Seoulites browse the bright lights after work, while even more trendy Japanese women on three day vacation packages spree through the city’s famous shopping districts.<span style=""> </span>Most prices are labeled, a change in the last few years, my friend says, and bargaining, in any language, is usually met with stern refusal. I find that Japanese, not English, is the language of commerce here.<span style=""> </span>Hashing out in Japanese with the Korean vendor, we both complement each other’s language skills, and occasionally I whisper, you don’t have to rip me off, I’m not Japanese. In the morning I explore one of <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Seoul</st1:place></st1:city>’s famous palaces, a miniature <st1:place st="on">Forbidden City</st1:place> that happens to be newly refurbished and squeaky clean. Its beautiful, just a little too shiny to conjure images of stubborn despots fighting off invasions of Japanese samurai. At the medicine market, the air reeks of Ginseng, and wrinkled faces shuffle slowly yet aggressively through stalls and barrels of wood chips, used for tea. I remember that my tropical summer journey has turned into winter in the northern reaches of <st1:place st="on">Asia</st1:place>, and <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Seoul</st1:place></st1:city> is several degrees colder than <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Pusan</st1:place></st1:city> or <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Osaka</st1:place></st1:city>, and its time to find something indoors.<span style=""> </span>The search for the perfectly ridiculous tourist experience is this time found at the Kimchee museum. We spend an hour gazing at plastic models of dozens of different pickled cabbages, and I learn all about the wonders of anti-bacterial fermentation.<span style=""> </span>I take a night river cruise, its not a bad view, but Seoul’s heart is not bisected by a river, its skyscrapers and neon lights are scattered in the distance, and the river side is a lonely park, populated only by, what else, ten <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/R6k38-71fVI/AAAAAAAACwg/pETShBQhbXQ/s1600-h/best+of+Korea+and+aus.+-+33.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/R6k38-71fVI/AAAAAAAACwg/pETShBQhbXQ/s320/best+of+Korea+and+aus.+-+33.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5163719968582630738" border="0" /></a>vendors selling exactly the same product.<span style=""> </span>Have we seen this before in <st1:place st="on">Asia</st1:place>? This time is snacks, Korean sodas, and of course, the inevitable instant noodles.<span style=""> </span>We spend the final morning at the <st1:place st="on"><st1:placename st="on">National</st1:placename> <st1:placetype st="on">Museum</st1:placetype></st1:place>, a fantastic collection of a culture absorbed and modified from Chinese, only these people were brash enough 50o years ago to abolish Chinese characters completely.<span style=""> </span>We get our last fill of Korean food at lunch, who would have thought that putting white rice in a small metal bowl would make it taste so good? And of course there is lean tasty steak, sizzling tofu soup, and our favorite spicy pickled vegetables. </p>M. Clivehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14441754093591076347noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5722102837847088860.post-30050257469552667142008-02-05T19:46:00.000-08:002008-02-05T20:20:00.717-08:00Thailand Journal<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/R6kwvO71fJI/AAAAAAAACvA/kznmuiL85L8/s1600-h/Best+of+SE+Asia+-+109.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/R6kwvO71fJI/AAAAAAAACvA/kznmuiL85L8/s320/Best+of+SE+Asia+-+109.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5163712035778034834" border="0" /></a>June 14. I rode a bus from Siam Reap to Bangkok, coming the other direction into Cambodia its known as the “scam bus”, but here it was no problem.<span style=""> </span>I took an uncomfortable mini bus from Siam Reap to the border, walked through customs (they did not ask for ticket proof of departure from Thailand, theoretically a requirement), and all I had to do was show a ticket stub and I was let on the luxury bus going the remainder of the way to Bangkok. Crossing the border was a shockingly disparate view of the two countries, from a dusty wasteland in Cambodia to a paved four lane highway lined with trim timber plantations in Thailand.<span style=""> </span>Bangkok was amusing, it seems everyone who has ever been on an airplane has gone or will go to Bangkok sometime in their life and return with strong feelings, so here are mine. Its an amusing city, the food is superb and the temples are wondrous, all gauchely draped in gold and decoration at every possible turn. Anybody driving a wheeled vehicle will try to scam you, and they can lie like its their job. Distances multiply, temples close, and buses vanish in the tales of these gypsies.<span style=""> </span> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">June 19. I’m on the way from the beach back to Bangkok, it wasn’t easy but I managed to find the bus station in Surat Thani after someone tried to take me to a private bus, and then they city bus passed by the long distance bus station while I wasn’t paying attention. Taking buses in countries where I couldn’t speak the language, I almost always got by with stating the name of my destination only once when I got on the bus; it didn’t work this time. In Thailand there are foreigner tourist buses and then there are local buses; its nice to travel with locals, but the foreigner buses are more comfortable and infinitely easier for about the same price. It’s a no brainer. I arrived in a dark neighborhood of Bangkok around midnight in a grumpy mood, too proud to pay overpriced taxi fares, and ended up walking a few blocks through blackened streets until I finally got a ride. Probably not the safest thing, in retrospect.<span style=""> </span>For our last night in Ko Samui we found a local restaurant (amazingly) for dinner; it was stupendous. Ko Samui is decidedly upmarket and geared for older tourists who don’t want to see much of real Thailand. The other day we took a tour to Ang something marine park, the tour was brief and dumbed down, full of soft drinks and corny jokes.<span style=""> </span>You’re better off just finding a boat that can drop you off at the park headquarters, where you can rent a tent, <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/R6kwve71fKI/AAAAAAAACvI/vlbnSr5rkiU/s1600-h/DSCN1012.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/R6kwve71fKI/AAAAAAAACvI/vlbnSr5rkiU/s320/DSCN1012.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5163712040073002146" border="0" /></a>borrow kayaks, and explore to your hearts content. On a twenty minute hike from the HQ I saw a troupe of langurs. Wow. I dove at Sail Rock, one of the most famous spots around Ko Tao, it was murky and the coral was sparse, there were tons of pelagic fish though. We rode elephants on Koh Phanang, they were slow and sad beasts, reluctant to move. On Phanang we stayed at the Full Moon Party beach when it was not full moon, thinking this might make it relaxing.<span style=""> </span>There were few people, but the bars seemed to ignore this fact, pumping out dance music across the beach to scores of empty tables. Our best times were spent drinking at our cliff top sunset view bungalow and playing euchre. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">June 22: Ayuthaya, ancient capital of Thailand, a park of brick ruins scattered across a flat river island. I rode a bicycle around the park for the day, the ruins are frequent but scattered, there are more than anyone would ever need to visit. The temples must have been impressive in their day, filled with shiny Buddhist images, but in the 21<sup>st</sup> century, mere brick ruins in a park of mowed grass and evenly spaced trees just makes me feel like I’m walking around an abandoned school yard. I was amazed how few tourist there were; most were Japanese. A woman walked up to me offereing a copper medallion engraved with the Buddha, it looked like it came from the machine where you insert a penny and a dollar and your penny comes out elongated and engraved in the coat of arms of some fishing club. She was the only person who really tried to sell me anything in this town, and her persistence made her seem like some kind of a messenger. I saw a giant snake swimming through a pond of lotus at the park; maybe it was a salamander. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">June 25, near Chiang Mai. I tried going to Doi Inthanon National Park, but I arrived in the border town Chomthong too late. While I was realizing this, a kid offered to take me into the park on his moto.<span style=""> </span>I had been unhappy with the lack of hospitality and forwardness in the random strangers of Thailand, and when this guy came up to me, spitting out fragments of poor English and offering help, I grinned and thought, yes, that’s what I’m talking about! After waiting around for little while, we decided it was too late to try to go into the park, and then searched to no avail for hotels in the town. He offered to take me to his house, and I said sure, thinking it was just some little flat down the road, as he said he was a college student. I hop on the back of his moto and he proceeds to drive into the jungle, through two other National Parks, for about an hour, to his tribal village deep in the mountains. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/R6kwue71fHI/AAAAAAAACuw/5uIwHx8ozHo/s1600-h/Best+of+SE+Asia+-+121.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/R6kwue71fHI/AAAAAAAACuw/5uIwHx8ozHo/s320/Best+of+SE+Asia+-+121.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5163712022893132914" border="0" /></a>His family and village are Karin people, an extremely large ethnic group that lives in the rural areas of Northern Thailand and Burma. The village holds maybe 200 people, many have pickup tricks and solar panels, but there were few lights on when we arrived not long after dusk. All the women wear exactly the same dress, and the babies have clothes and usually even shoes. It would be a good stop on a trek. The kid brought me to Doi Inthanon NP the next day and seemed to want to take me on to Chiang Mai with him, but I let him leave me at the park headquarters. Before I began my travels, I remember reading in several guidebooks and websites that when you are traveling, especially alone, basically every local person who is nice to you is trying to rip you off. Well, after traveling for several months in Asia, often alone, I can confidently say this is profoundly wrong. Sure, if they are a tuk tuk driver and live in Bangkok, Saigon, etc, this is true, but there were countless occasions where my faith in the fellow man was met with help and friendliness. <span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Doi Inthanon sucked. I finally found the park headquarters, I assumed that I would be able to find everything I needed there: lodges, restaurants, and trails; parks like this are often developed around the HQ. The highway runs northwest into the park and towards the summit, the HQ is located at km 30 from Chumthon, immediately after the turnoff for Siriphum waterfall. But there is nothing at the headquarters. <span style=""> </span>They have food, but camping or luxury guesthouses are a kilometer away. I ask for a ride to the campsite, they say no, I have to carry it. It is summer; all of the trails are closed except for a 300 meter nature loop at the summit, 17 km away.<span style=""> </span>What the hell, I stay, and let my hill tribe friend continue on while secretly paying for his lunch while he was away making a phone call (I was unable to pay for any other food or gas).<span style=""> </span>I lug the tent and the Walmart sized sleeping pad down the highway to the campsite, and I spend the rest of the afternoon looking for the closed trails, assuming there should at least be a sign in Thai leading to a closed trailhead. I found nothing. I would ask farmers and point to the trail on the map and they would just shake their head no.<span style=""> </span>Even in the winter a guide would be crucial in order to find the trails. I did manage to find some greenhouses full of ornamental mums. Now I’m drinking in coffee in the restaurant, a true National Park cafeteria begging for tour buses and windshield tourists. My waiter (there are currently no fewer than nine staff serving zero customers) squelches in Thai at the women in the kitchen and walks with the feminine hip shuffle found in countless Thai men. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">There are forested mountains all around me that must be dripping with monkeys, I just can’t reach them. Instead there’s a big highway through the park scattering farms and villages almost all the way to the summit of the mountain. I’m starting to feel like the demanding tourist who has an agenda and wants it met; earlier I was happy with just seeing what appeared around me.<span style=""> </span>The other night at the river lodge was quality, I passed the hours eating snake soup and getting drunk on something awful with the Thai – Karin raft guides. They could speak some English, but the night ended with me listening to them sing old folk songs. I can be happy with that anywhere: guitar at night in the countryside.<span style=""> </span>I’ve learned that doing tourist things is tons easier and often even a little cheaper; doing something off the beaten path means less English, more money, and more difficulty, probably requiring guides and greater distances.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">I had made it this far into the park, and didn’t want it all to go to naught, so the next day I hitchhiked up the mountain. The first ride I got was with construction workers chewing something that looked like glue. They were building a Buddhist temple in the mist near the top of the mountain. I get the rest of the way to the top, cruise the 300 meter nature trail through the cloud forest, and hitch hike my way back out.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/R6kwuu71fII/AAAAAAAACu4/NEZv76oagGY/s1600-h/Best+of+SE+Asia+-+137.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/R6kwuu71fII/AAAAAAAACu4/NEZv76oagGY/s320/Best+of+SE+Asia+-+137.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5163712027188100226" border="0" /></a>June 25: trekking, Salawin River, Burma border. At the border town of Mae Sam Lop I met some Babtist missionaries going to Karin villages. They were from Virginia, and seemed really excited to meet another foreigner. My guide’s name is Cha. The river is enormous; the boat dropped us at a tiny beach and we hiked up through the jungle, passing a few huts lying on tiny rice fields. We find our village to spend the night, and it rains on and off most of the afternoon and night.<span style=""> </span>The village is full of chickens and pigs running around under the houses. All cooking is done on woodfire, and everyone sleeps on thin reed mats. I dreamt about Nova and some word starting with the sound nia…; it means lazy. All of the old folks chew betel nut and smoke pipes; their mouths are hideous. Betel nut is mildly narcotic, flaming red seed that makes your teeth fall out. Imagine a wrinkled face that has seen several years, smiling a toothless grin with bright fat red gums. <span style=""> </span>The rainy season is beginning and we see them transplanting the seedlings into the fields.<span style=""> </span>We walk around the terraces and up through the cracks, passing giant teak trees and jungle covered in vine.<span style=""> </span>The jungle is remarkably thick, and the dwellings are few. Its raining hard now, we are about to have breakfast.<span style=""> </span>I imagined “hill tribes” being only one small tribe living by themseslves, but in Northern Thailand they all seem to be Karin, a large ethnic group numbering in the hundreds of thousands. The other day in Burma some Karin rebels blew up a bus. Maybe not a place to go on vacation (in September 2007 the world was shocked by an uprising of monks against the Myanmar government). In this village, all the women wear beautiful red quilted drapes for all kinds of clothing, hats, shawls, and dresses, sometimes concealing babies underneath, often while the women are working in the fields. I keep seeing amazing snails, butterflies, and dragonflies.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">June 27. We walked most of the day through the jungle and along ridge tops. Along the ridge line the jungle was not thick, but there were very few rice patties along the entire route. On the valley bottoms it was thick, the trees were massive, and birds sounded the air all day long. It didn’t even rain during the afternoon. We stay in a village along the creek; modest homes line the stepp hillsides, all with straw roofs and a few with solar panels. I’m sure that the solar panels are provided by the government or an NGO, and I’ve read that in rural areas far from power lines, solar panels can be cheaper than the cost of building power lines. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/R6kwue71fGI/AAAAAAAACuo/TIs7Y08lGEk/s1600-h/Best+of+SE+Asia+-+138.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/R6kwue71fGI/AAAAAAAACuo/TIs7Y08lGEk/s320/Best+of+SE+Asia+-+138.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5163712022893132898" border="0" /></a>The babies here seem to have slightly bloated bellies, but food seems adequate. While smoking pipes, the family we are staying with ask me how much was my plane ticket to come from America to Thailand. I try to evade the question by telling them that I didn’t really come directly from America, but they mention how much a waste of money it is compared to what the money could provide in the village. In the morning the mother husks rice. I can’t walk to the toilet without slipping on the muddy slopes: it would be so easy to build a few steps, but I guess they don’t need them.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></p> <p style="text-align: left;" class="MsoNormal"> <span style="font-family:times new roman;">July 2</span><span style="font-family:times new roman;">. </span><span style="font-family:times new roman;">I wake up to the sounds of chickens in a village in the Salween river jungle in Northern Thailand. I hike back to town, hop on a bike to the next town, and then onto a long bus ride back to Bangkok. I watch the sun rise over the </span><span style="line-height: 115%;font-family:times new roman;font-size:12;" ><span style="font-size:100%;">Chao Phraya river </span></span><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" >as </span><span style="font-family:times new roman;">I sit atop an elephant of Wat Arurm. Ate breakfast with a dude from Iceland having beer and cigarettes for his meal, bought souvenirs and dress clothes for my upcoming adventure, and was definitely ready to leave. I did enjoy eating one last final meal in an alley. Thirty six hours in Bangkok and I’m on to Beijing, ready to turn a new chapter. </span></p>M. Clivehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14441754093591076347noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5722102837847088860.post-55297950887501575612008-02-05T19:43:00.000-08:002008-02-05T20:21:10.287-08:00Cambodia JournalMay 21: Phnom Penh.<span style=""> </span>I’ve been here for three days waiting for my volunteer job to get put together. In the meantime I’m enjoying the good life in P.P., a French colonial leftover brimming with beggars, street children, and <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/R6kzLO71fLI/AAAAAAAACvQ/j1Up0o1Aqxw/s1600-h/Best+of+SE+Asia+-+067.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/R6kzLO71fLI/AAAAAAAACvQ/j1Up0o1Aqxw/s320/Best+of+SE+Asia+-+067.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5163714715837627570" border="0" /></a>motorcycles.<span style=""> </span>Monks clad in saffron orange, squinting, without the aid of hat or hair, ride on the back of motorcycles through intersections where five bikes in each direction cross flawlessly, all without stopping.<span style=""> </span>Middle aged white men inhabit the city’s restaurants by day and bar by night, they might not all be sex tourists, but one bad apple, well. Vendors pushing sunglasses, leftover guidebooks, and cigarettes wander unimpeded into sidewalk cafes.<span style=""> </span>Wat Phnom is surrounded by monkeys and the children poking them, I asked a man at in the temple to write it’s name in Khmer script in my temple journal; he desperately tried to escape but managed just fine in the end.<span style=""> </span>The Royal Palace was brilliant, a colonial relic filled with stupas, temples, and a pagoda; lotus stalks surrounding the smooth and painted structures.<span style=""> </span>It has the potential to be a beautiful tropical city, it just isn’t one now. Lush, drooping trees line broad sidewalks, but as of 2007, the sidewalks are stuffed with trash, parked cars, and abandoned piles of junk.<span style=""> </span> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">May 24.<span style=""> </span>Pursat, Cambodia, a small provincial city sitting on a perpetually muddy river. I’m staying at a Chinese businessman hotel and volunteering at the local environmental NGO as well as an English school in the evening.<span style=""> </span>I just walked into the school at 5:00 pm one day and ten minutes later was teaching a class of a dozen teenagers.<span style=""> </span>It was a loud and hot building, and I had trouble understanding the other teacher’s English when they spoke to me.<span style=""> </span>I visit the home stay of the other volunteers in the town for dinner. They have a large house full of people coming and going, and a few of the daughters speak some English; the mother speaks a few words of French. </p> <br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">May 26.<span style=""> </span>Yesterday at the English school I had them write down their goals for the next ten years; most were jobs, travel, and family, the same goals any group of kids would have. A few wanted to be billionaires, start hospitals, and help the poor (never got that one in Japan). Some of the students are teenage monks; they mentioned mother god helping them study, visiting Angkor Wat, and guiding tourists. The monks are six or seven, at college age a few years older than most of the other kids and sit together like punks in the back of the classroom.<span style=""> </span>The kids say thank you and the girls giggle after every opportunity they have to talk to me.<span style=""> </span>They ask me where I stay, where I eat, and how is the hygiene.<span style=""> </span>At the restaurant I go to for lunch, the juice guy invited me to eat with him, we chewed on a plate of rice and chicken claws and smiled at each other; my ten words of Khmer all but matched his English. Later on, in the internet café, kids sit next to me finishing homework assignments on Word and Excel. At night I went out with two of the other volunteers and we drank palm wine while the bar girl tried helplessly to talk to us in Khmer.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/R6kzLu71fMI/AAAAAAAACvY/uLIId-rQW7Y/s1600-h/Best+of+SE+Asia+-+081.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/R6kzLu71fMI/AAAAAAAACvY/uLIId-rQW7Y/s320/Best+of+SE+Asia+-+081.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5163714724427562178" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">May 28. I went to the village of one of my students, they were a farming family; some neighbors were making rice noodles. The father had a tattoo on his chest dating from Pol Pot; it was a traditional Buddhist mark of good fortune.<span style=""> </span>The family of six has one good motorcycle, the son uses it to go to high school twenty km away.<span style=""> </span>The father wanted me to take the son to America to study.<span style=""> </span>When we started walking around the neighborhood a group of no fewer than eight children started following us.<span style=""> </span>I had dinner that night at the house of a friend and three young women living together; they had photo albums consisting entirely of themselves, I had fun looking at each shot and asking, who’s that? Me. Who’s that? Me. Who’s that? Me! They were fascinated that I was traveling alone and wondered why I came to Cambodia; they seemed truly sad that they couldn’t afford to go anywhere.<span style=""> </span>Travel anywhere, or simply talk about traveling, and a light turns on in people, but there was really something longing in their eyes. <span style=""> </span>It is kind of a mellow, sad envy: they see a foreigner traveling through like it’s a vacation but they’re afraid that they will never have the opportunity to see another country. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">May 31. I visited the village of the ecotourism project that the NGO is working on. Rice fields filled all available land, water buffalo mingled among the ditches, and children were working the livestock. All the houses are on stilts, an adaptation for flooding as well as livestock shelter, and many of the houses were only accessible down a narrow motorcycle path. The full onslaught of monsoon is coming soon; the fields are beginning to fill up with water and the rice is only ankle high. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">In the morning I went to the monastary where one of the monks who attends my English school lives. We had a little trouble communicating the concept of early morning prayer, so I rode up in the predawn haze at five in the morning, thinking it an appropriate time for some action, only to find that they pray at four am! All the monks are about twenty years old, they study the teachings of Buddhism, then they can become monks and gain a scholarship for general study at a school.<span style=""> </span>I’ve ascertained that it most Buddhist cultures monkship is more of an avenue of youth scholarship than a vehicle of religious devotion. Robes hang outside the dormitories like sheets on a clothesline. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">June 2. The people I meet keep asking me about how I feel being in such a different place. On June 1 we went to a local festival for international childrens day (something I had not known), and watched traditional dances with peacocks and fisherman, in additional to seeing a traveling science fair put on by a provincial university. I stayed part of the weekend at a friends house that could have doubled as a supermarket.<span style=""> </span>Dozens of various fruit trees bearing round pomes with hard peels and fleshy seeds surrounded the house, while hundreds of football sized catfish wriggled over each other for scraps of food in a pond. But the most fascinating were the crocodiles, no larger than a dogshed enclosure full of satchels of leathery monsters sunning and snatching at rhodents. The father, a fisheries manager, buys them from fishermen who accidentally catch the baby crocs in their nets.<span style=""> </span>Then he raises them and sells them off to food stores, petting zoos, Chinese collectors, you name it. We went out to a floating village on the Tonle Sap lake, there were hundreds of wooden huts and shops floating in shallow water a few hundred meters from shore. Most were fishermen who either found this life easier than land or couldn’t afford a house on land; women and children passed around the “neighborhood” on canoes and rowboats. We stopped on a friend’s porch and ate bucketfuls of pea sized shrimp, freshly dug out of the muck not far away, in addition to a few quarts of clams roasted on the top of a canoe in the sun. <span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">June 5. I went to the house of one of the teachers from the English school. We drank beer in the afternoon and went swimming in the river; it was just like any afternoon BBQ in any country in the world. We feebly tossed a net into the river a few times, but they said that there are few fish in the river on account of electric shock fishing. The guys made cheers every time they drink and touched each other frequently. The women cooked and disappeared quickly. I went to the host family’s house for dinner and met the daugther’s arranged fiancée, he worked for a tobacco company and asked questions about democracy in America. The other volunteers were out, so I managed to get the family to eat together with me, something that they hadn’t been doing with us before. They eat a bowl of rice before they begin eating the accompanying dishes, and they forsake a perfectly good table to sit on the floor of the front porch. We ate Thai curry (they<span style=""> </span>said it was “Khmer” curry) and watermelon. <span style=""> </span>I went to my friends house one last time, the three young women, and one of them, a tailor, had sewn me a shirt. I almost cried and went to hug her, but she cringed in terror. I regain my pride and give her a thumbs up, and we spend the rest of the night laughing at Khmer music videos. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">June 7. Leaving Pursat was sad, all the people I had met wanted to have dinner with me on the last night.<span style=""> </span>Everyone spoke to me with a slight of longing; they thought that I would forget them soon, while they would never have the <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/R6kzL-71fOI/AAAAAAAACvo/6J6Cc9wMcMA/s1600-h/Best+of+SE+Asia+-+088.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/R6kzL-71fOI/AAAAAAAACvo/6J6Cc9wMcMA/s320/Best+of+SE+Asia+-+088.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5163714728722529506" border="0" /></a>chance to go to the places that I was going to. Volunteering was a mixed bag, I felt kind of useless at the environmental NGO.<span style=""> </span>I didn’t have any great skills that I can contribute, and as soon as I arrived I realized that a few weeks wouldn’t be enough time.<span style=""> </span>I even have some experience with non profits, which made it even more frustrating that I couldn’t be of assistance. One of the other volunteers said that this kind of volunteering was glorified ecotourism, and although he was an arrogant know it all, he might have a point here.<span style=""> </span>I’m 27 years old and I just feel like I haven’t accomplished anything; I haven’t gotten good at many things.<span style=""> </span>I try something for a short time and gain an understanding but don’t truly learn a skill.<span style=""> </span>Plants, GIS, marine biology, teaching, I’m only a novice at all of them.<span style=""> </span>If I can go to the Peace Corps, what will I be able to do (contribute)?<span style=""> </span>Colorado College said that I was learning how to learn; maybe that’s what I’ll do.<span style=""> </span>I’m imagining myself with some NGO in South America, coordinating an environmental education program. We’ll see what happens.<span style=""> </span>Teaching at the school was a lifesaver here, it was a fantastic experience for me and I’m pretty sure that it was a good experience for the students and other teachers as well. Its something I would recommend to anyone traveling, teacher or not. So many volunteer placements are not something that an individual can be squeezed into easily, but teaching English can be. If you find yourself traveling for an extended period of time, just drop in somewhere and ask if they want help, you probably wouldn’t get turned down too often. And if you have any kind of specialty: a nurse, a carpenter, mechanic, or tradesman, skills with computers, grant writing, accounting, anything like that, just pick out a place you want to go, research some organizations, and contact directly. Don’t bother with any of those volunteer placements that pop up in internet ads and charge thousands of dollars: if you have the time, just go to the source and cut out the middleman. <span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Now I’m in Battangbang, waiting to take a boat across the Tonle Sap to Angkor Wat: the slow route. Battangbang is beautiful, a decent sized city with supple parkland lining the river and wats topping the surrounding hills. I hopped off the bus and a man speaking perfect English caught me and wanted to take me to the Royal hotel. Hey, that’s actually where I was planning on going, so I hopped on. Handing my bag to him as we walked over to his motorcycle, I immediately thought, this is how people get ripped off. But this was Cambodia, a country that treated me perfectly for three weeks, and we zipped off to the hotel. Lets go for a ride, I want to show you some sights, he persuaded me after arriving at the hotel. We cruised around the countryside, he asked me what I was doing here, and we talked about Japan. We had a few laughs about the wonderful women from that great country, and he said he dated a Japanese volunteer for a couple years when she lived there, but then she returned home alone, both of them unable to give up their home. <span style=""> </span>We rode the “bamboo train” back to the city and as I walked off, I thought, he hasn’t asked for any money. How much do you want, I asked. Its up to you, he responded, a phrase I had grown accustomed to hearing in Cambodia. I gave him something, not nearly as much as I should have, and offer this advice to travelers: if you have time to spare in Cambodia, go to Battangbang and look for the guy speaking perfect English who wants to take you on a tour on his moto. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=""> </span>The Royal Hotel was nice, complete with a fine rooftop restaurant, and the next morning rode the boat: it was a little long (3-5 hours) and hot, and seating about a dozen on rough wooden boards, its no cruise ship, but it offers a nice view of life along the lake.<span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">June 14. I met my friends Randy and Allison in Angkor, as well as Mike, Gill, Mark and Megan, and we had a glorious time together. The temples were amazing, mountains of rock risjing from the jungle. The restored temples, meaning the more popular ones, were less like ruins and more like temples, while I really preferred the others, which were more less like temples and more like ruins.<span style=""> </span>You could touch almost everythjing and walk around anywhere, quite a change from my<span style=""> </span>many years with the National Park Service. Our guide told us how the Hinduism and Buddhism basically coalesced at Angor Wat, as the Buddhist gradually took over the temples in the 12<sup>th</sup> and 13<sup>th</sup> centuries and replaced most <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/R6kzLu71fNI/AAAAAAAACvg/g7xgMFd3uhg/s1600-h/DSCN0824.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/R6kzLu71fNI/AAAAAAAACvg/g7xgMFd3uhg/s320/DSCN0824.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5163714724427562194" border="0" /></a>of the Hindu deities with their own.<span style=""> </span>I was shocked how much was looted in the wars of the 1970’s and 1980’s. As I child I would gaze at my father’s photos of the wats, he stopped on the way home from Vietnam in 1970. Now in 2007, the same statues were there but missing heads.<span style=""> </span>Even now, understaffed, I’m sure it wouldn’t have been hard to walk off with a few backpacks of artifacts. Returning from the wats to Siam Reap on Sunday evening, we passed by what must have been the whole town, out picnicking in the fields outside the main Angkor Wat.<span style=""> </span>All Cambodians are allowed free access to the temples, and at that moment I could comprehend the support that Khmers have for their historic monuments.<span style=""> </span>Deny locals access to parks and reserves and watch them fail; this was not happening here.<span style=""> </span>I bought postcards from a little girl; I used my ten words of Khmer language and asked her what her name was, she gave a brilliant smile and proudly stated an incomprehensible mix of sharp consonants and soft vowels.<span style=""> </span>A few minutes later she found me again, and running up to me, handed me a bracelet and wished me good luck. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="">REFLECTIONS on CAMBODIA<o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Phnom Penh is just a few hours from the coast and the jungle, but ecotourism is still infant and the coast is far from a beach paradise. Angkor Wat, not to mention dozens of fascinating villages, wats, and sights around the Tonle Sap lake are only a few hours north, but a horrible road network makes it difficult for visitors to spend much time on the ground.<span style=""> </span>Seeing Cambodia one must remember that this is a country about ten years old, less than a generation removed from a genocide, civil war, and border war with Vietnam. They have a long way to catch up with their more affluent neighbors, but I truly believe they are on the path.<span style=""> </span>They have a lot of faith in education improving people’s future. Here is an entire generation whose parents knew no school.<span style=""> </span>People would tell me about how there wasn’t enough to eat under Pol Pot, and how he killed all the teachers and educated people. A good friend of mine, a teacher about the same age as me, had five siblings killed by Pol Pot. After Pol Pot, his parents returned to their hometown, and started their life again, having four more children, including my friend. His father died last year of natural causes, and one of his sisters died last year from AIDS.<span style=""> </span>My friend is a lively personality, a fantastic teacher, and an optimistic man.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">A British aid worker told me that the aid agencies are like a parallel government in Cambodia.<span style=""> </span>In my short experience, I saw this happening; dozens of organizations and agencies from around the world packing into the few cities in the country, trying to help a broken society back on its feet.<span style=""> </span>Cambodia needs help everywhere: schools, infrastructure, finance, government, the list goes on. NGOs also provide some of the best jobs that educated locals can get, and some that I met gave me an interesting perspective on the influence they receive from different countries. The Chinese just want to come to make a buck on short term businesses, but it is something that the country needs to an extent. Japanese help with projects like roads and bridges, and they offer aid because they have a war guilt (maybe this is where the Japanese war guilt is focused, because it surely isn’t focused towards China, or inwards). America is helpful but they are obsessed with democracy; so much of their aid is linked to democracy benchmarks. The World Bank and company are afraid to fund roads and bridges for suspicious governments because they’ve spent decades propping up murderers while destroying tropical ecosystems with misguided projects. So now this is left largely to China, who is perhaps even more immune to brutal regimes and environmentally damaging projects in the developing world. But China is filling a void, a void left by the west.<span style=""> </span>A middle ground must be sought: development needs roads just as much as it needs democracy, and many countries are teaching the US that prosperity is more important than democracy, notably Iraq and almost all the rest of Asia.</p>M. Clivehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14441754093591076347noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5722102837847088860.post-52358580127088635332008-02-05T19:40:00.000-08:002008-02-05T20:19:37.250-08:00Hong Kong, Philippines, Singapore Journal<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/R6k0a-71fPI/AAAAAAAACvw/zPNcodiefjE/s1600-h/Best+of+SE+Asia+-+001.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/R6k0a-71fPI/AAAAAAAACvw/zPNcodiefjE/s320/Best+of+SE+Asia+-+001.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5163716085932195058" border="0" /></a>April 25. Hong Kong is beautiful from far away; highrises straddle the line between shore front and mountain. The city burns with people, noise, lights, and movement. So far I’ve seen pushers with their guesthouses, massage shops, and watches, I’ve seen crystal clean shopping malls, and I’ve seen blocks of restaurants with chickens hanging in the window.<span style=""> </span> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">April 26.<span style=""> </span>I spent the day walking, passing by the markets, the vistas, and the city itself.<span style=""> </span>There were monkeys in the middle of a city park, there was a street lined with goldfish and baby turtles, another with ginseng roots and medicinal bird’s nests, another with dried marine products. The food was great in the cheap restaurants, the service quick and gruff. There were businessmen of all countries, but just a few blocks from the banking district you could see men in dirty clothes handling boxes and spitting frequently.<span style=""> </span>In the apartment building of the hostel there was a woman in a bathrobe, she was on the balcony talking on a cell phone. She must have been there more than two hours. <span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Looking back now, this was one of my clearest memories of the beginning of my travel; there was something memorable about seeing people living their lives, similar to a life that I knew but different in a way.<span style=""> </span>After six months of this, I have come to think that this is just exactly how the world is: everything is different, but only in little ways; there are only slight differences that set our cultures apart.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Compared to Japan, Hong Kong is more diverse, has of course more skyscrapers, wider streets and sidewalks, and is much louder.<span style=""> </span>Kissing in public, wrinkled veterans dancing taichi in the dawn light of the parks, and Indians and Chinese struggling to comprehend each other in accented English are but a few lucid memories of this city.<span style=""> </span>I met two Koreans who were traveling through here, one had just finished his military service, and the other was just entering. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">April 27.<span style=""> </span>I’m in Cebu, in the Philippines: after many years, back in the tropics.<span style=""> </span>Its warm even at night time, people move slowly, the beer is a little warm, and geckos saunter up the restaurant walls. I’m overcome with a feeling of warmth and ease. I’m sating at perhaps the 7<sup>th</sup> hotel that I have stopped at this night; after continuous rejection from full hotels, I’m still only paying $9 for a decent room, and I don’t even have to share it with anyone.<span style=""> </span>So far I’ve seen motor tricycles, jeepneys, and all other kinds of internal combustion engines packing the streets; in Manila I had to take a bus from the international airport ot the domestic one, somehow I feel that that is about all I need to see of the capital.<span style=""> </span>It looked like, well, Manila. How else can you describe something that completely fills up to your expectations? Back here in Cebu, just about the whole citizenry seems to be loitering on the sidewalk, waiting for something to happen, and both of the taxi drivers asked me if I wanted to meet a girl that “they knew.” <span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">April 27. I found my friend Ethan at Moalboal, diving with his monitoring team, and I joined them in the afternoon. It was the first time in two years, and a long time since I had seen a coral reed with brightly colored fish. They monitor the protected areas; he says that mot of the fish are bought for a luxury item. We looked at the beach and had a beer, his group of six are all young Philippinos, in addition to one Australian girl. Then we went to a dinner feast of a local dive shop owner who’s running for Congress; they brought out a roasted pig on an oar. When they drink, they drink a small glass of beer, in turn, out of a big bottle. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">April 28. We rode eight people on a motor trike to breakfast, which we ate on someone’s patio. We dove in the morning and I saw a sea turtle in the wild for the first time. (After this I was to see one on just about every dive in southeast Asia). We ate lunch at someone’s house again, it was fiesta weekend of the town’s patron saint Vincente, as well as being the local election.<span style=""> </span>People were waiting in shifts to get seats in the kitchen and eat lunch, continuously being schlepped out be a large woman standing next to the stove. We took a minibus back to Cebu, it was swerving around jeepneys, buses, motor trikes, bicycles, and pedestrians the whole way. We ate dinner at a pizza restauraunt in a shopping mall, it was about ten times the price of anywhere else I had eaten in the country. From the sidewalk tables all you could see was a parking lot full of clean cars; no people waiting around, no trikes. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">May 1. I’ve stayed at Ethan’s place in Cebu for a couple days now, we went snorkeling and diving nearby, we also spent a day in the city with his friends getting tattoos and drinking beer in the afternoon; I got a haircut in a little hut on the side of the road; there were several people watching and the man said that he was shocked that he was getting business. We went to a dinner for Philippine Peace Corps volunteers, they had some interesting and varied experiences doing community work and teaching, some of them were jaded from difficulties with local customs, others with lack of direction from the Peace Corps office. One woman reminded me that its always better to ask for forgiveness than to ask for permission.<span style=""> </span>After diving in Cebu today, we went to the town market and saw a lot of the same fish, this time lying on a table for sale. They were all extremely small. Today I ate green fringed mussels and snails so tiny<span style=""> </span>you had to pick out the meat with a toothpick. Ethan said they were called poor man’s fish; we had seen people collecting them at low tide earlier in the day. We had walked down to the beach at sunset and were followed by some kids who sprinted out in front of me every time I took my camera out; it became a challenge to take a photo of anything but their faces, close up. We were also given a few drinks of coconut moonshine from a group of mostly women.<span style=""> </span>Expecting the worst, I was not let down. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/R6k0bO71fQI/AAAAAAAACv4/lpH7dy5RquI/s1600-h/Best+of+SE+Asia+-+028.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/R6k0bO71fQI/AAAAAAAACv4/lpH7dy5RquI/s320/Best+of+SE+Asia+-+028.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5163716090227162370" border="0" /></a>May 2. It took a very long time to arrive at Apo Island, and I will dive tomorrow. I started on an aircon bus that was cool and quiet but still crowded, next to me were a mother and two girls, all in one seat. The bus dropped me off at a dive resort of mostly Japanese tourists, after this I took a boat across to another island, and took another bus, this one the most crowded I have even been on in my life. One last boat across the choppy water and I’ve finally arrived at the dive island, it is known throughout the world as one of the best examples of a community run marine sanctuary.<span style=""> </span>After seeing it for just a few days, I would guess to agree: the reef is in good shape, there are large fish, it seems to get support from the community, and the community seems to be prospering.<span style=""> </span>There’s even a guard on duty against illegal fishing 24 hours a day. I walked down the beach at sunset and saw two men skinning a chicken on the shore, I am now quite sure that I have seen everything.<span style=""> </span>This is one of the most beautiful island I have ever seen. The sun sets and gives way to a warm, starry night; videoke music drifts quietly in the background. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">May 6. Diving at Apo Island was amazing, coral and fish were everywhere, I saw turtles on every dive, even on a night dive I saw a turtle sleeping; it was so peaceful and beautiful it made me think about how nature really exists.<span style=""> </span>On Friday<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/R6k0bO71fRI/AAAAAAAACwA/jQ0QbYiqNpI/s1600-h/Best+of+SE+Asia+-+032.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/R6k0bO71fRI/AAAAAAAACwA/jQ0QbYiqNpI/s320/Best+of+SE+Asia+-+032.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5163716090227162386" border="0" /></a> I watched the sun rise from an old lighthouse on top of the island, I watched the sun set from the ferry returning to Cebu.<span style=""> </span>Both times the sun came or went over a tiny island in the vast distance of the ocean. Riding the ferry is quite nice, there’s a little more space than a bus and it doesn’t stop every five minutes and honk at something. Yesterday Ethan and I went to the site of Magellan’s death and did a minor re-enactment. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">May 8. I went diving in Bohol at Panglao, now I’m staying in the jungle at Nuts Huts on the Loboc River. The divers and dive staff were mostly German, and their safety standards were extremely lax. They didn’t seem to interested in the fish either. Why do they come (and stay) there?<span style=""> </span>The rest of the beach was populated by numerous leathery elder Europeans. But the beach was redeemed by a great selection of books in the hostel and a few superb beers on the beach. I ran into some of the Peace Corps volunteers that I had met with Ethan. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Taking a jeepney to get to the jungle river, we roll out of town cruising 10 mph down a straight, broad road nearly devoid of traffic, while the radio is blaring out only the worst sets of pop music. And there is nothing I can do about it. On the next bus, a very friendly man helped me find the jungle lodge, walking down the bumpy road to the entrance, everyone waved and said hello to me. <span style=""> </span>Nuts Huts is full of backpackers fascinatingly traveled yet tortuously pretentious. They speak in vocabulary quite extensive and none are from North America. I fall asleep to the sounds of insects and frogs this time, rather than waves. <span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">May 9: spent the day riding around the hills on a motorbike with a German guy named Neils. We stopped at a man’s house to duck out of a downpour, gazed into a 300 year old Catholic Church, walked straight up to handfuls of Tarsiers (a rare primate found only in the Philippines), and cruised through the Chocolate Hills. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">May 10: hiked through jungle villages and huts up to an enormous cave, swam across the Loboc River coming while floating karaoke restaurant boats passed by.<span style=""> </span>Heading out, I rode in the front seat of the jeepney back through Taglibaran out towards Cabilao, where I met Ethan and friends once more.<span style=""> </span>His directions were to take a boat out to an island and ask for Peetey’s house.<span style=""> </span>I wasn’t<span style=""> </span>worried, and rightly so; getting there was a breeze.<span style=""> </span>We spent the night at his friends house singing old folk songs to the sound of a old guitar and slept on mats in the living room. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">May 11. Woke up at sunrise and dove at Cabilao, there were millions of fish and a few pygmy seahorses.<span style=""> </span>Took a slow boat that smelled like a farm back to Cebu. Cabilao was truly amazing, just as nice as Apo and much better than Panglao, although you have to work a little harder to get there.<span style=""> </span>A lot of the dive sites in the Philippines depend more on what they got on land than what’s in the water: you’re going to find pretty amazing stuff wherever you look, your experience as a whole will depend more on the lodge and the atmosphere surrounding it. Panglao and Moalboal are much more developed and you get what comes along with that: restaurants, bars, and souvenirs.<span style=""> </span>Apo and Cabilao are isolated islands, diving is about all that’s going on and you will find much quieter if any nightlife and a welcome respite from commercialism and things touristy.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">May 13.<span style=""> </span>Batad, Philippines, the last village on Earth. OK, of course this superlative gets thrown around, but this place deserves it.<span style=""> </span>From the tourist rice terrace village of Banaue, a jeep runs infrequently the 10 km route to the end of the dirt highway on the top of a mountain; from here it’s a 2 kmk hike down a proper trail into the village of Batad. I ran into some local kids who are college students on vacation, returning from voting in the town; they shared their lunch with me and we hiked together into the valley while each of them took turns holding the chicken that was to be their dinner. Talk about an amazing life; they lived weekdays in Banaue for high school, returning home only on weekends, now they attend university in the next town further. We stopped at their house on the way into the village, a an aluminum roofed structure of decent size; they pointed to the thatched hut where they all lived as children and called it “the native hut.”<span style=""> </span>It was about four square meters raised on stilts, and now was a mere grain storage. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Sitting on the porch of one of the lodges, sipping coffee and peering across the endless expanse of damp green terraces, its hard to get more perfect. In the background a girl named Maya strums beautifully on the guitar. The lodge serves a suprising variety of Israeli dishes, thanks to a wave of their tourists from the 80’s. Locals ask me if I am Isreali (almost as funny as all the times in China when locals ask me if I am French). Folks here talk on cell phones but also skin chickens and live in huts without electricity or running water. Pick and choose technologies.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/R6k0be71fSI/AAAAAAAACwI/2qE-1-F4Auo/s1600-h/Best+of+SE+Asia+-+039.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/R6k0be71fSI/AAAAAAAACwI/2qE-1-F4Auo/s320/Best+of+SE+Asia+-+039.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5163716094522129698" border="0" /></a>May 15. I walked around Batad and the rice terraces today; I saw a man sitting in a hut wearing complete traditional garb and obviously not posing for any photo; he looked as if he hadn’t moved all day. At a waterfall a woman asked me to sing a song, then she proceeded to sing “Country Road” and told me that it was a song by Elvis. So many Filipinos that I’ve met have amazing language skills, they often speak one or two local dialects, the national language, and often English as well, even in the rural areas. I hear conversations where one person speaks a local dialect to another person who responds in English. I met some French folks on vacation from their grad school in Singapore; we played boggle and talked about travel and the new French president Sarkozy.<span style=""> </span>I hired a guide to walk around the rice terraces in Banaue, he showed me how they plant the rice in seedlots and then transport it to the main field, in order to keep them from washing away; he also showed me how the irrigation drips down from one terrace to another.<span style=""> </span>They only plant once a year and its basically organic so the yield is very low, the rice that they produce can’t even sustain the small town. The villages were only really entered from the outside about a hundred years ago; the Spanish had effectively left the interior mountain areas alone. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">May 18: Singapore. A city apart from the rest- fast, clean, high tech; international- Chinese, whites, Indian sailors, Muslims, Vietnamese hookers, Singaporean kids in military service. British influence is easily noticeable with whitewashed hotels, Indian bellhops, Anglican steeples, grassy lawns, and afternoon tea.<span style=""> </span>A street corner food court will hold between five and ten counters dishing cheap Chinese food; people are eating all day.<span style=""> </span>Markets sell coconuts, pineapples, and any kind of juice imaginable. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/R6k0be71fTI/AAAAAAAACwQ/8LBaAYeaXBk/s1600-h/Best+of+SE+Asia+-+062.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/R6k0be71fTI/AAAAAAAACwQ/8LBaAYeaXBk/s320/Best+of+SE+Asia+-+062.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5163716094522129714" border="0" /></a>Indian restaurants pack in middle aged women in saris, while young Muslim women in head scarves return from work on the city buses. The Arab neighborhood sports entire blocks full of silk shops, I meet a friendly man trying to sell me a carpet. But I don’t have a house, what can I do with a carpet, counter, sure that this salesman has nowhere to go with me. You gotta start somewhere, he responds, and realizing hopelessness, starts asking me where I from. You can’t be American, all the Americans have big muscles, he laughs, grabbing my biceps. Meanwhile, the Indian neighborhood sports entire blocks full of jewelry shops, and I fill the rest of the afternoon passing Hindu temples, mosques, and a Chinese Buddhist temple where patrons are packed together raising incense above their heads and depositing stalks of lotus by the hundreds. At the hostel, the enjoyable Betel Box, a met a guy from San Francisco who travels around the world as a freelance nano-technologist, a Canadian living in Bali who came to Singapore for his birthday (37), and two Danish girls on the way home from New Zealand as WWOOF volunteers. </p>M. Clivehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14441754093591076347noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5722102837847088860.post-43509932007292604332008-02-03T16:06:00.000-08:002008-02-03T16:08:36.109-08:00Nova<table style="width:194px;"><tr><td align="center" style="height:194px;background:url(http://picasaweb.google.com/f/img/transparent_album_background.gif) no-repeat left"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/mattbare03/Nova"><img src="http://lh5.google.com/mattbare03/R4rzrenWwoE/AAAAAAAACis/AGB80r1WJjg/s160-c/Nova.jpg" width="160" height="160" style="margin:1px 0 0 4px;"></a></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align:center;font-family:arial,sans-serif;font-size:11px"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/mattbare03/Nova" style="color:#4D4D4D;font-weight:bold;text-decoration:none;">Nova</a></td></tr></table>M. Clivehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14441754093591076347noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5722102837847088860.post-17623084261636257852008-02-03T15:54:00.001-08:002008-02-03T15:54:49.177-08:00Japan parties<table style="width:194px;"><tr><td align="center" style="height:194px;background:url(http://picasaweb.google.com/f/img/transparent_album_background.gif) no-repeat left"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/mattbare03/JapanParties"><img src="http://lh4.google.com/mattbare03/R6Xhou71azE/AAAAAAAACoA/xDZTeONpfbc/s160-c/JapanParties.jpg" width="160" height="160" style="margin:1px 0 0 4px;"></a></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align:center;font-family:arial,sans-serif;font-size:11px"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/mattbare03/JapanParties" style="color:#4D4D4D;font-weight:bold;text-decoration:none;">Japan parties</a></td></tr></table>M. Clivehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14441754093591076347noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5722102837847088860.post-29470258371724376722008-02-03T14:24:00.000-08:002008-02-03T14:25:33.974-08:00Japan Karaoke slideshow<table style="width: 194px;"><tbody><tr><td style="background: transparent url(http://picasaweb.google.com/f/img/transparent_album_background.gif) no-repeat scroll left center; height: 194px; -moz-background-clip: -moz-initial; -moz-background-origin: -moz-initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: -moz-initial;" align="center"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/mattbare03/JapanKaraokes"><img src="http://lh5.google.com/mattbare03/R6XZI-71ahE/AAAAAAAACSg/-vDV02ZGWkY/s160-c/JapanKaraokes.jpg" style="margin: 1px 0pt 0pt 4px;" height="160" width="160" /></a></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center; font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 11px;"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/mattbare03/JapanKaraokes" style="color: rgb(77, 77, 77); font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none;">Japan karaokes</a></td></tr></tbody></table>M. Clivehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14441754093591076347noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5722102837847088860.post-55891192032225039932008-02-03T12:48:00.001-08:002008-02-03T12:49:13.345-08:00Monkeys of the World<table style="width:194px;"><tr><td align="center" style="height:194px;background:url(http://picasaweb.google.com/f/img/transparent_album_background.gif) no-repeat left"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/mattbare03/MonkeysOfTheWorld"><img src="http://lh6.google.com/mattbare03/R6X8YO71clE/AAAAAAAACYY/pcoU8Oi_pKM/s160-c/MonkeysOfTheWorld.jpg" width="160" height="160" style="margin:1px 0 0 4px;"></a></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align:center;font-family:arial,sans-serif;font-size:11px"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/mattbare03/MonkeysOfTheWorld" style="color:#4D4D4D;font-weight:bold;text-decoration:none;">Monkeys of the world</a></td></tr></table>M. Clivehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14441754093591076347noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5722102837847088860.post-30852911520809180322008-02-02T21:46:00.000-08:002008-02-03T14:37:57.950-08:00China Trains<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/R6ZBhu71eZI/AAAAAAAACjw/Jy-0yWOFiLQ/s1600-h/China+-+277.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/R6ZBhu71eZI/AAAAAAAACjw/Jy-0yWOFiLQ/s320/China+-+277.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5162886070617340306" border="0" /></a>Riding the Rails in the Land of Mao<br /><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p><br /> Every time I take a train or bus in China it’s as if it’s the first time the travel has ever been conducted in the country.<span style=""> </span>Every soul, passengers, drivers, and attendants, are so utterly confused about the logistics of this particular modus of transportation. Entering a train station, you encounter the usual security line with metal detectors you might find in any large station, building, or airport. Only these metal detectors push people through at such a rapid pace one scarcely imagines the two guards manage to ensure much safety. All of the bags, in addition to the shelves of food that every passenger religiously brings on their 20 hour voyage, is thrown on a conveyor belt through the metal detector that is so short you have to rush through the security check at full speed in order to prevent the contents of the food from being crushed by a giant suitcase, or, worse yet, dropped off the belt onto the floor which has probably not seen a mop since the days of Mao. At the gate, lines a hundred deep wait for the doors to open, at which time you have but a fleeting window to lug a suitcase down two flights of stairs and run to the platform in the few minutes before the train departs. See, the passengers are not allowed onto the platform until the train has arrives, providing frightening little time to find your carriage. Just pray your not in car 22, way in the back. One time I even got to wait in one more line on the way to the train, huddled around a table waiting to get my ticket stamped, stamped, who needs a stamp?, while suitcases rolled over my feet and tiny old ladies elbowed me aside to cut in front.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/R6ZBiO71eaI/AAAAAAAACj4/iNcWxhTw5Yw/s1600-h/China+-+train.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/R6ZBiO71eaI/AAAAAAAACj4/iNcWxhTw5Yw/s320/China+-+train.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5162886079207274914" border="0" /></a> Once on the train, you’ll have the luxury of knowing that your assigned seat or bed belongs to you and only you, although many train passengers are apparently still learning how to read numbers, and remember, we’re talking about simple integers here. There are three stories of bunks, the bottom being the nicest, but likely to be shared by all of your neighbors; the top bunks require a significant 5.3 climb, and grant just enough headroom to gather up enough velocity when you move so that when you hit your head on the roof, it actually hurts. For every six bunks there are two narrow seats in the hallway, usually they are reserved for the use of drinking baijiu or eating Ramen, the only food acceptable to eat on a train (throw in some Sunflower seeds spat all over the floor). Buses fare little better in organization.<span style=""> </span>Tickets are sometimes sold, sometimes not.<span style=""> </span>Fancy coaches have a small toilet (supposedly reserved for #1), but most do not. One time I had the pleasure of sitting behind the toilet (it was located in the middle of the bus) (the seat came with supreme leg room). Occasionally the toilet entrance was used as a stealth smoking spot (obviously banned on the bus). Later the toilet door became locked from the outside with no one inside. I had the joy of watching just about every passenger on the bus, one by one, first knock on the door, then wait five minutes, the attempt frantically, with no success, to pry open the door. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Head phones are also crucial for any bus journey; the honking of the air horn at every animate object in the road can be deafening, as can the gunshots and wailing maidens from the Hong Kong cinema played on the bus DVD system.<span style=""> </span>And if the bus isn’t too shiny, you’ll also get the fan favorite sound of China, the sound of me hawking and spitting. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Of course, sitting in the aisle seats you’ll have to keep watch of the runway of carts selling snakes, warm beer, packaged cucumbers, ore made tepid meals, and of course, my personal favorite, the souvenirs.<span style=""> </span>Once I saw a man selling what looked to be a box of dried hardened portabella mushrooms.<span style=""> </span>Some kind of herbal medicine I gathered, meanwhile pondering how they might taste grilled with parsley and goat cheese. The man, an avaricious salesman, was detailing the merits of his product in rapid fire Chinese.<span style=""> </span>“Are you, like, a doctor?” I ask, the best my Chinese can muster.<span style=""> </span>“More or less,” he answers. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/R6ZBg-71eYI/AAAAAAAACjo/7ZVSqNftnX4/s1600-h/China+-+276.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/R6ZBg-71eYI/AAAAAAAACjo/7ZVSqNftnX4/s320/China+-+276.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5162886057732438402" border="0" /></a>Then there are the Chinese Zodiac cards with poses of Chairman Mao.<span style=""> </span>One of my favorite Chinese pastimes is asking people who Mao is.<span style=""> </span>A pop singer? A basketball player? Oh yeah, I know, he plays for the Houston Rockets, right!? After the koke is over I want to reassure them that everyone, everyone knows who Mao is, but then I remember those Canadiens that I met that one time… But the one souvenir they always have is the set of paper currency from around the world, featuring <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Saddam Hussein</st1:city>, <st1:country-region st="on">Yugoslavia</st1:country-region></st1:place> (pointed out to me as a “sister country”), and my favorite, the Japanese rupee with the picture of a Thai wat. “This is not Japanese money!” I lecture them. “But it’s from the past.” “But the rupee is <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">India</st1:place></st1:country-region>, and this picture is from <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Thailand</st1:place></st1:country-region>!” I don’t understand what they say to me after that. The souvenir salespeople are always, not surprisingly, the most friendly and talkative.<span style=""> </span>What else would you do if you were stuck on a train for 20 hours with nothing to do but sell meaningless drivel?</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/R6ZBiu71ebI/AAAAAAAACkA/5SOm-AVjJY8/s1600-h/China+-+015.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_zdmePX7nD1Q/R6ZBiu71ebI/AAAAAAAACkA/5SOm-AVjJY8/s320/China+-+015.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5162886087797209522" border="0" /></a>The bathrooms on the train cars are plentiful, but timing is essential; the toilets are locked as the train approaches a station (take a minute to do the math of where the toilet dumps its waste.) I learned this is an exchange with the attendant over my admittance to one of said toilets. “No you can’t use it,” she says.<span style=""> </span>“Why?” “blah blah blah blah train blah blah blah short time blah blah,” I make out, and as she relents and lets me in, I’m thinking, what does time have to do with this?, and then it dawns on me as the train begins to slow down.<span style=""> </span>There’s even a sink to wash your hands after the bathroom, and only rarely does it not have water. There are soap dispensers but, alas, no soap.<span style=""> </span>The soap dispenser, this is what <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">China</st1:place></st1:country-region> is all about.<span style=""> </span>Anywhere in the world, riding a dirty train for rock bottom prices, passing a countryside of peasant farmers, no one expects soap dispensers.<span style=""> </span>But somewhere along the way someone decided that the trains in <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">China</st1:place></st1:country-region> should have soap, but they forgot something, they forgot about the soap.<span style=""> </span> <!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--> <!--[endif]--></p>M. Clivehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14441754093591076347noreply@blogger.com0